


Disappear Here

by AgnesBlue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Angst a bit over the top, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bonding, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Might be a bit dreary, Mildly Dubious Consent, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Physical Disability, Pining Derek, Pining Stiles, Protective Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesBlue/pseuds/AgnesBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was quiet.<br/>“What?” Derek said again.<br/>“My first heat is coming up soon,” Stiles said at last.<br/>Derek closed his eyes, disinterested. He knew where Stiles was going with this.<br/>“I was thinking…hoping, really,” Stiles said. “Maybe you could stay with me during that time.”</p><p>AU in which wounded in a fire that killed off his entire family, Derek wants nothing more than to be left alone as he finishes off his senior year in high school. That all changes when omega Stiles Stilinski asks him to help him through his first heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the continual use of many offensive words throughout the story: my intent was to portray a culture of werewolves that hold strongly to the ‘survival of the fittest’ mindset, and anyone permanently wounded in any capacity, is considered defective. This is certainly not my own viewpoint, and I hope the language isn't too much of a turn-off.
> 
> As mentioned in the tags, the angst is very heavy handed and may end up giving you a headache. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to keep Stiles human, so while it’s not strongly alluded to, he's human.
> 
> Not betaed. I apologize for any mistakes. Thank you so much for reading.

It was a sunny, Friday afternoon and the students were straggling about the schoolyard like zombies that had died while holding trash grabbers in one hand and plastic bags in the other, unenthusiastically plucking up an assortment of litter out of the grass. Soda cans, candy bar wrappers, drug paraphernalia, and even a used condom. There was a little bit of everything.

Their principal was a big, booming ex-marine of a man who adored character building exercises and student ownership, and he got this way sometimes, when he was suddenly gripped with the fear that this generation of youngsters were being bred into a bunch of limp-wristed morons. He would cut classes short without warning and shoo them out of the building for a few hours of good old-fashioned manual labor.

Unlike everyone else, Derek had been given a broom and was told to sweep the patio, a tiny, dirty, litter and weed-strewn area to the side of the building where students went to smoke. He knew it was because of his leg, and he had been angry, that anyone would think he wasn’t physically capable of walking around and picking up fucking garbage, but it wasn’t worth arguing over. So he quietly did what he was told to do, sweeping the concrete floor and around the one rotting bench. He now had three tidy piles of cigarette butts.

Up to that point, cleanup had been mostly quiet. Uneventful. Then an omega had come out of the building, dragging out a trash bag half his size to toss into the dumpster and everything had been shot to hell.

“Fuck, I want to _fuck_ that thing!”

The declaration came from Derek’s left, undoubtedly made by some alpha simmering in sexual frustration. And yep, when he glanced up, he saw that Jordan had abandoned his task at hand to watch the omega go by. Derek could practically smell him salivating.

Derek’s first instinct was to turn away and ignore the whole thing. He continued to sweep, eyes trained on the ground.  _Keep your nose clean_ , had been his tenet for the past few years – it was a good, sensible tenet – and he didn’t want any trouble.

“What’s stopping you?” said another guy. “Just fuck him, if that’s what you want.”

The wrongness of the words made Derek’s hackles rise, but he had already promised himself he wasn’t going to get involved. Peace and quiet. It was all he asked for these days. _Not my circus, not my monkeys_ , he thought, and shit, if that didn’t send an unexpected pang of sadness through him, because it had been one of his mom’s sayings, back when she was alive. Back when everyone was alive, and he hadn’t been alone.  
He hoped that the omega possessed some common sense and self-preservation skills and would quickly go back inside, because there weren’t many who would get in the way of an alpha going after an omega. It was all Derek could hope for.

But the omega wasn’t having it. “First of all, I’m not a “thing” and second, not interested in the least being diddled by any one of you big lugs. So that’s what’s should be stopping you.”

Stiles Stilinski. Derek should have known. The freshman with the big mouth and a thousand and one things to say. And say them he did, spouting off like a broken faucet no one knew how to turn off. Some omegas played the part, acting docile and submissive and oh-so helpless. Stilinski was not one of them. Derek didn’t know if the kid was too smart for his own good, or too dumb. Because standing up for yourself was all fine and dandy, commendable, really, but some things were an exercise in futility. Jordan and his friends belonged to a brood of wolves who took no for yes and yes for yes, and every little thing was an invitation.

And as if proving this: “You want some help with that?” Jordan called out.

“No,” Stiles said.

“Really? Looks heavy,” Jordan said. “Like my dick.”

“Sounds like a serious medical condition. Maybe you should get that looked at,” Stiles said, his voice flat.

“Maybe you should be my doctor,” Jordan said. “Check it out for me. With your mouth.”

No answer from Stiles, and it was quiet for the next minute or two. Then, Jordan must have made some sort of move, because suddenly he was yowling in surprise.

Derek turned around in time to see the trash bag bouncing to a stop a few feet away, like a huge, black beach ball. From the look of things, Stiles had slugged it into Jordan’s face as hard as he could and the alpha was doubled over, hands cupping his face.

“Don’t touch me!” Stiles shouted.

Derek sighed. This was going to end very, very badly. The omega had essentially dug his own grave. Jordan adored his face.

“You little bitch!” Jordan said, making a grab at him.

Stilinski tried to dart away, but Jordan moved fast. In one swoop, he caught the omega by the waist and slammed him to the ground.

“Get his wrists,” Jordan snarled to his friend, who was more than happy to oblige. Together, they pinned him down with ease, even as Stilinski struggled and kicked about like an angry cat.

“You are so fucked,” Jordan told him. Derek could hear the malicious glee in his voice. “If you get my drift.”

Derek leaned the broom handle against the wall and went over.

“All right, that’s enough,” Derek said. “Let him up.”

Jordan looked up at the intrusion and his eyes went contemptuous and mocking.

“Fuck off, gimp,” Jordan said. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

Derek didn’t feel like exchanging insult for insult. He had never been particularly good at it. “You’re hurting him,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, and he’s going to be hurting a hell of a lot more after I’m done with him,” Jordan said. He peered down with a smirk at Stilinski, who had gone still and was staring at Derek with wide eyes. “You’re going to have the sorest ass in town, aren’t you?”

Jordan turned his back to Derek. Bad move. Derek grabbed a handful of that spiky, bright yellow hair and yanked. It was like pulling a rotten turnip out of loose soil and Jordan landed splat on his ass, stunned, upper lip curling in a snarl. He twisted around with the fluid movements of a beast, hunching into a fighting stance. Red pooled in his eyes.

Derek looked at him patiently. He didn’t know why people kept thinking that he didn’t know how to fight anymore, just because of his leg. He still had his fists, and he still knew how to use them. But that was the thing. You diminished into a ghost, a shadow that skimmed over the walls and drifted over the floors. Guess Jordan was going to find out the hard way that Derek Hale was still more than capable of wiping the floor with him. He could still break every bone in Jordan's body.

Something must have shown in his eyes, though, because Jordan slowly pulled himself up, and the red bled out. His friend looked at him uncertainly, as if silently asking if they weren’t going to jump Derek, but Jordan ignored him. "Whatever. Take him, he's all yours. I wouldn't touch his diseased dick for anything."

Derek kept quiet, his eyes never leaving the other alpha.

“See you around, slut,” Jordan told Stilinski, because pride mandated he get in the last word. He smacked the omega on the ass, swift and hard, making Stilinski jump with a wince. Derek decided to let that one go and Jordan sneered meanly at him as he left.

Derek waited for a few seconds, making sure that Jordan was actually leaving, then went back to the pathway, where his broom and dustpan was waiting for him. Stilinski tagged after him like a leashed puppy.

He hoped Stilinski wasn’t going to ream him out for helping him, going on about how he had it all under control. Aside from the fact that it wasn’t true – it could have ended very badly for Stilinski – Derek was tired, his leg was throbbing and he was cranky. The last thing he needed right now was some chippy little omega berating him for being chivalrous.

Derek turned his back to him, hinting that Stiles should leave him alone. He didn’t.

“I’m Stiles,” he said instead.

“I know who you are,” Derek said. Everyone did, for two reasons. First, he was an omega, one out of the scant handful at the school. Second, he talked a lot. It was very difficult to not notice a classmate who refused to shut the hell up. Sometimes, you could hear him from two classrooms over.

Stilinski perked up. “You do? Wow, that’s amazing! I really mean that. And here I was, thinking that you didn’t even know I existed.”

“Yeah, I bet that really kept you up at night,” Derek said dourly.

“Heh,” said Stiles.

Derek would have ignored him but Stiles continued to stand there, watching him in a way that set Derek’s nerves on gritty edge.

“Do you need something?” Derek said tersely, after a while. His leg was beginning to hurt and he knew he would need to sit down soon if he didn’t want to buckle. He preferred no one be around when he did.

“No. No. Don’t mind me,” Stiles said, and continued to stand there.

“Go away,” Derek said, when he couldn’t take it anymore.

“No, it’s okay. I’m done inside and don’t have anything to do. Can I help with anything?” Stiles said.

“Go away,” Derek said again, making his eyes flash.

Stiles was not in the least cowed. “Alright, well, bye for now.”

He stood there for another long moment, just _starin_ g at Derek like some weirdo, then gave him a cheerful wave before finally going back inside. Derek went back to sweeping and wishing the bell would ring so he could go home.

 

* * *

 

After that, Stilinski was everywhere, the human equivalent of the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. He would pop up like a whack-a-mole from hell, all chipmunky smiles and bright eyes, _all Derek this and Derek that_ , as if they were friends or something. At Derek’s locker while he was taking out his textbooks, the hallways as Derek limped to class, the outside table where he ate lunch by himself, overlooking a grassy field that had been a second home to him back when he was the captain of the lacrosse team a lifetime ago. Then, once, in the boy’s restroom, while Derek was holding his cock and taking a piss.

“Derek! There you are! I was looking all over…”

He trickled off mid-sentence, and it wasn’t rocket science figuring out what had caught his attention. Derek threatened to smash his face flat as a pancake if he didn’t go away right this instant. Stilinski looked up at him as if dazed, lips parted and cheeks flushed pink, stinking to high heaven of arousal.

“Huh?” he said distractedly.

There was nothing more embarrassing than having to repeat a threat because someone failed to hear it the first time. Derek quietly zipped himself back up and left. He knew it was no use getting upset. While omegas were considered to be in a perpetual state of horniness, Stilinski was fifteen and Derek could see that he was going through the changes associated with that age. He was beginning to smell different. Fertile and ripe, like a swollen fruit about to burst open with juice. Febrile, as if his entire body was turning into a pulse point emanating heat, announcing to the town that he would soon be ready. Ready for that biological imperative to be fucked and bred.

And Derek wasn’t the only one who noticed. By now all the alphas were tripping over themselves in their haste to be honey-nice to him, to be the first one to bite into that sweet and plump flesh. They showered him with presents, little bags of chips and gummies from the vending machine, cold sodas and chocolate bars. They performed for him out on the field, stripping their shirts off to reveal their sweat-glistening chests, boasting how virile they were, how good they would be for him.

But each time Derek looked up, it was him Stiles was staring at.

 

* * *

 

School was over for the day and the students spilled out through the doors. It was time to go home. Derek limped out slowly.

His car had broken down a few months ago, the second time that year, and he didn’t see the point of getting it fixed. He suspected that it would only break again in a matter of months, and he didn’t feel like throwing a few hundred dollars down the drain. So he usually walked everywhere, when the weather was nice. It would have made more sense to take the bus, far less taxing on his leg, but... he was just masochistic, he supposed. He had never been a cheapskate, but after the fire, he hated spending money on himself.

Soon into his trek, Derek realized he was being followed. A thin, plaid-shirted figure was scurrying after him, darting behind corners and popping back up from behind potted plants. Derek turned around and a fuzzy head ducked down behind a restaurant sidewalk sign. Passersby were staring at him strangely. Derek didn’t blame them.

He took a right. Stiles took a right. He took a left, Stiles took a left. He stopped at a pedestrian light, Stilinski stopped at a pedestrian light.

“Stop following me,” Derek finally said, when he’d had enough. The kid majorly sucked at stealth.

“Dude. Egotistical much?” Stiles said, affronted. “I’m not following you. Is this your special sidewalk? Do you own it? I don’t think so.”

The light lit up green and knowing he couldn’t win, Derek walked across the street in his crooked gait. Stiles chased after him.

The houses gradually turned drab and shabby, smaller, the panels sagging like the beer belly of a middle-aged man who spent his hours on the couch. The grass turned yellow and long. Derek continued on until he eventually reached a squat, ugly apartment complex painted the color of a baked tangerine. The parking lot was fairly empty and he didn’t see anyone about. The place always bore the appearance of being abandoned. A cat mewled from somewhere close by. Derek knew that stray tabby well; it was missing a chunk of an ear and was mean as a pirate.

His place was on the second floor. By now Stiles was making no bones about the fact that he was, indeed, following Derek, and he trod up along the stairs with him, then waited behind his shoulder as Derek reached for his keys. He looked at Derek belligerently, as if daring Derek to tell him to fuck off. Derek didn’t bother. He unlocked his apartment door, then pushed Stiles away when he tried to follow inside.

“Come on, seriously?” Stiles cried.

Yes, seriously, Derek didn’t say.

“Derek!” Stiles said.

He shut the door in the kid’s face, and dumped his bag on the floor. He was exhausted and as it always did after more than twenty minutes of walking, the muscles inside his left leg felt as if they had been scrubbed with hot coals. 

The apartment was as plain as plain could be. He had been living here for the past year and a half since the fire. During the summer, it was hot but tolerable. The cold winters had never bothered him much when he was younger, but now his leg ached horrendously each time the temperature dropped. His neighbors were mostly Weres who were old or disabled like him, considered a burden to society and a waste of oxygen, and they all shared the mutual desire to be left alone.

He washed up in the bathroom, and changed into a worn shirt and sweatpants. He sat on the bed with his legs straight out, elevating his foot on a rolled-up towel. Sometimes that helped. Knowing that his mind had a tendency to roam dark, depressing corners if he didn’t give it something to do, he reached for a book and started to read where he’d last left off. He managed to read a good portion of it without any distractions.

He hadn’t necessarily forgotten Stiles’ was out there, but he was startled when the bright voice piped up, talking to one of the residents.

“Heya, cutie. Whatcha doing out here?”

Yolanda, from four doors down, who had once been a legendary cage fighter until an opponent ripped off an arm like a chicken drumstick. Her career was dead as dust now, but she still looked more than capable of punching out an elephant. The ongoing rumor was that she had forayed into the world of adult videos, but Derek highly skeptical of this, because if there was one thing Weres were grossed out by watching, it was crippled people having sex, followed shortly by old people having sex.

“Oh, just my jerk of a boyfriend,” Stiles said loudly. “Won’t let me in.”

“Really? He did?” Yolanda sounded concerned. “He’s inside and he won’t let you in? He locked you out?”

“Yeah, he’s being a mean old grumpy face."

“Oh, honey,” Yolanda said. “That’s so sad. You shouldn’t let him treat you like that. It’s not right.”

Stiles sighed dramatically. “I know. But he has so much on his shoulders, you know? He’s going through a lot right now. I keep telling him it doesn’t matter to me one bit that he has erectile dysfunction and irritable bowel syndrome. Flatulence will not keep us apart. Don’t get me wrong, it’s no picnic. It’s like a sewage in there. Like, his stomach is a septic tank. It's so bad, you have no idea.”

Yolanda made commiserating sounds, urging him to go on.

“I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but he has trouble controlling his sphincter muscles. Sometimes, I have to put diapers on him because he’ll go, in bed, right in the middle of the night. Just _sploosh_."

Derek sat there, scowling as he listened to Stiles make up a pile of bullshit, replete with sound effects.

“But everything I do, I do it because he’s _the one_. We’re going to get through all our hardships together. I know he can hear me right now, and I want to say, Derek, no amount of diarrhea will smother out my love for you.”

Yolanda was touched. “Oh, hon, I don’t think he deserves you.”

“I know. I know he doesn’t deserve me. But I can’t stand to leave him. I love him, poopy-pants and all. He’s been my hero since the fourth grade.”

Derek opened his front door before Stiles could go on. Stiles was standing with Yolanda, looking like kindergartner next to the one-armed amazon.

“There he is,” Stiles said. Yolanda frowned ponderously when she saw him.

“You treat him right!” Yolanda said. Derek would have told her to mind her own business, but didn’t quite feel like spending the next hour picking his teeth off the floor.

Stiles was fighting down a grin as Derek stepped aside to let him through.

“You done defaming my character?” Derek said.

“I haven’t even started,” Stiles said cheekily. “Serve you right for not letting me in and making me stay out there for three hours.”

“You’re really not as cute as you think you are,” Derek said, then felt that familiar sting again. Another one of his mother’s sayings.

“Please. I’m as cute as a button.”

Stilinski scanned the apartment, the tiny kitchen, the little eating nook with the single chair, the single-sized bed pushed into the corner, then the closed door that led into the tiny bathroom. It was Spartan, to say the least. His eyes roamed the walls and Derek knew he was looking for pictures. Derek had none. The only photo he owned, he carried in his wallet. But if Stiles was surprised by the sparseness of the place, the utter bareness of the walls and the lack of furniture and furnishings, he didn’t show it.

Stiles settled himself down on the chair and rested his arms on the counter.

“I’m hungry,” he announced.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Derek said.

“Derek. I’m hungry.”

Derek sighed and clumped over to the kitchen. There was plastic bag half-full of sliced bread on the cupboard shelf. He tossed it in Stiles’ direction without looking, and the other boy let out a small _oof_.

Derek set a jar of peanut butter on the table next to the bag of bread, along with an old spoon he took out of the drawer.

“This is all I have,” Derek said, both defensive and embarrassed. He was still an alpha, such as it were, and the instinct was still there, the need to feed and take care of a potential mate. To show off that he could provide.

“Better than nothing, as I always say. Ooh, sweet, it’s the crunchy kind.” Stiles rustled out four slices of bread, then spread peanut butter on one side with careful, clean strokes of the knife. His cheeks bulged out like a chipmunk’s as he ate.

“I have apple cider,” Derek said, remembering. His next door neighbor had left him a bag filled with unwanted groceries when he moved out a month ago, just dropped it in front of his door without a word. “The kind you mix into water,” he said, feeling even more stupid.

“Peanut butter sandwich and apple cider?” Stiles said. “Sounds yummy.”

Derek heated a battered kettle over the stove. When the water came to a boil, he poured it into a mug – the cleaner one out of the two he owned – and emptied the pouch inside. The powdery cloud of artificial cinnamon made him cough. Smoke inhalation from the fire had caused some damage to his lungs, which never fully healed, and it was easily irritated.

Since there were no other chairs, Derek perched himself on the defunct steel radiator screwed to the ground, and wondered what the hell he was doing.

Once Stiles was done with his two sandwiches, he made two more. Then when he was finished with the bread and there weren’t any left to make sandwiches with, he began to scoop and scrape the peanut butter out of the jar and eat that. He didn’t stop until the jar was empty and the spoon was glistening clean.

“Sorry I ate all your food,” Stiles said. He paused. “Guess I should have offered you some.”

Derek laughed. It soon turned into a cough, and as he was hacking into the crook of his elbow, he missed the way Stiles watched him, his eyes soft and affectionate.

When the coughing fit subsided, he straightened up. It was that time of day when the late afternoon was slowly fading away into evening and beyond the window, the sky was turning into the deep, swollen cerulean blue that Derek liked. Strips of dark blue on darker blue, as if a dome was being placed over the town by giant invisible hands, slowly snuffing out the remaining sunlight. Derek had always been nocturnal. He had always loved the night, with the stars and the imperturbable silver moon.

“Can I stay the night?” Stiles said, just as Derek was opening his mouth to say that he needed to go now, before it became any darker.

“No.”

“Come on, Derek,” Stiles whined. “It’s late and it’s a long way back.”

“Don’t you have curfew?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and made a scoffing noise. Derek half-expected him to say _curfew shmurfew_ , the way Cora would have done. “They don’t care,” Stiles said.

Not for the first time, he wondered about Stiles. The kid was an orphan, that much he knew. Derek didn’t know what happened to his mother, but for a long time it had been Stiles and the sheriff. Then Mr. Stilinski was gone too, an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time a bullet was passing by, if Derek remembered correctly, and after that, it was just Stiles. As a minor, he wasn’t allowed to live by himself, and he was sent to the home for stray omegas, or whatever the hell the name of the institution was.

“You can’t stay here,” Derek said firmly. The last thing he wanted was for Stiles’ scent to be on everything, for Stiles to get the wrong idea. Feeding him had been bad enough.

“That bed looks big enough for the two of us,” Stiles said.

“It’s not,” Derek said.

“Then I can sleep on top of you. How about that? Keep you warm.” Stiles waggled his brows. “Be your blanket.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Derek said, getting out of his chair. The neighborhood wasn’t the worst, but it was dangerous for Stiles to roam about alone.

“You will?” Stiles said. “That’s so sweet. Are you worried someone will kidnap me?”

“Five minutes with you and they’d dump you right back on the street, so no,” Derek said.

“You suck,” Stiles grumbled.

Stiles gathered his things and waited while Derek locked the front door. Not that there was anything to steal, but force of habit was a hell of a thing, Derek supposed.  
They went down the stairs together and crossed the deserted parking lot. Stiles pressed against him, and tried to tangle their fingers together, but Derek shook him off.

He left Stiles when they were nearly there but not quite, when he knew Stiles was in safe territory. Stiles complained, asking him to take him all the way home, but he turned around.

“Bye, Derek!” Stiles’ voice cut through the gloam. The sounds of children running around and giggling in a nearby playground drifted through. A couple passed by, laughing, lost in their own little world. Summer was almost over, and the air was fragrant with the deepening foliage.

Derek tried not to think about how lonely it suddenly was, walking home by himself in the dark.

 

* * *

 

Derek was in the gym storage room, lying on a spongy mat that stank of rubber. It was where the old gym equipment was kept, and he liked to come down here when his leg became too much to handle and concentrating in class was out of the question.

It was raining heavily outside, and maybe it was because of the weather, but he was especially maudlin today, and no matter how hard he tried not to, his thoughts kept drifting to his family. Cora, his mom and dad. His grandparents. Laura, her husband and their unborn child. Even Uncle Peter, who had more often been a thorn in his side than not with the relentless teasing. Sometimes he couldn’t believe they were all gone, wiped out in one fiery sweep, leaving him alone in the world.  
It seemed like an elaborate practical joke, and that they would one day jump out and shout “Surprise!” And he would be so angry, but of course, he would forgive them and give them all great, big hugs and…

For the first few weeks after the fire, Kate had stayed around and he had thought he would be okay, he would get through to the other side, together, with Kate. But her parents hadn’t approved of a crippled boyfriend, and in the end, Kate agreed. He could hear her voice inside his head at times, overlapping with the crackling of fire and the shattering of glass.

_Do you think its fair, expecting me to stay with you? Do you not comprehend the magnitude of how fucking selfish that is? You’re shameless._

And that had been that. A two year relationship gone _poof_. It didn’t hurt as much now, and when he thought of her, what he mostly felt was the red-hot embarrassment of how desperately he had clung to her during those bleak, bottomless days. But he understood now, how true Kate had been when she said those things. He would have ruined her life.

The door quietly opened and shut, and footsteps approached. Moments later, a pair of skinny legs connected to a pair of grubby sneakers came into view. Stilinski.  
The kid lowered himself on the mat uninvited.

“I missed you at lunch,” Stiles said.

“Yeah,” Derek said distantly.

He hadn’t felt like eating. Today was one of those makes-no-sense days when his brain was being treacherous and sadistic, and he saw his family in every little thing. His heart would stutter and stitch when he saw women with dark hair or teardrop earrings or wearing a certain shade of lipstick. The tater tots from the cafeteria lunch reminded him of how Cora would bake an entire pan and eat it by the handful with spicy beer mustard. And one of the teachers had spritzed on dad’s cologne, and a football game with dad’s beloved team was being broadcast in the teacher’s lounge and the sports announcer dad hated was screaming into the microphone and...

Stiles leaned in and he could detect the milk lingering on the omega’s mouth. He smelled like a baby, clean and pure and innocent. Stiles lowered his face and rubbed his cheek against Derek’s chest.

“You smell so nice,” Stiles whispered into his shirt. They lay that way for a few seconds, the room quiet and all that could be heard was the rain. Derek’s skin was pleasantly warm where Stiles was draped over him. And then Stiles’ round, cropped head was drifting away from him as he trailed down the line of Derek’s chest, dropping gentle kisses along the way.

Stiles sucked an opened mouthed kiss on the V of Derek’s legs, right on the spot where his dick was covered under his jeans. He then slowly moved back up, dropping kisses just as he had on the way down, on the dip of Derek’s bellybutton, his sternum, his stubbled jaw.

“What are you doing?” Derek said, when Stiles came closer. A mouth pressed against the corner of his lips.

“Trying to seduce you,” Stiles said. He peered down at Derek. “Is it working?”

“No,” Derek said. He shucked the kid away. “Get off. You’re heavy.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Yes. Get off me.”

Stiles grudgingly did as he was told, tucking his skinny legs against his side. Derek stared up at the ceiling.

“So,” Stiles said. “Sooooo.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

“So,” Stiles said for the third time and Derek kept ignoring him. “Derek? Aren’t you interested in what I have to say? Come on, you have to be a tiny bit curious. I bet you’re dying to hear what I have to say.”

“No, I’m not.”

A spider was crawling along the plaster. Cora had always liked spiders, forbidding anyone from killing them whenever one was discovered inside the house. Which had driven Laura nuts.

“Derek,” Stiles said.

And Laura. Laura. His favorite sister. His partner in crime. His…

“Derek. Derek. Derek. Derek. Are you listening to me? Derek. Derek.”

Holy shit, the kid was annoying.

“What?” Derek said grumpily.

But now that he finally had Derek’s attention, Stiles was quiet.

“What?” Derek said again.

“My first heat is coming up soon,” Stiles said at last.

Derek closed his eyes, disinterested. He knew where Stiles was going with this.

“I was thinking…hoping, really,” Stiles said. “Maybe you could stay with me during that time.”

Derek snorted at the euphemism. _Stay with me_. As if Stiles was asking Derek to hold his hand and wipe his forehead with a wet cloth and play Florence Nightingale. And unless Florence Nightingale had gone about fucking her patients, he wasn’t.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?” Stiles said.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“You’re saying no to free sex? Free sex, Derek. Free. I mean, I know it’s with me, but still. Free.”

“I’m saying no. Ask someone else.”

Stiles’ voice was wobbly. “But I want you to do it.”

Derek simply turned his head away. He imagined Laura chiding him to stop being an idiot, hopping up and down in that way she did when she was frustrated and wanted to strangle something…

 _You deserve to be happy_ , the voice he carried in his mind said. Maybe it was Laura’s voice. He wasn’t sure anymore.

“No,” he said, for the third and final time, answering both of them.

 

* * *

 

Stiles stopped following him after that. But Derek could still feel his eyes on him, unhappy and desperate. The kid was still raiding vending machines, eating everything in sight. His scent grew even more enticing and fat with hormones, and Derek knew he would soon be ready.

Stiles tried one last time, coming up to Derek at the lockers as he was starting to head home.

“Derek, please?” he pleaded. “Could you please reconsider - ”

But Derek turned away. His answer remained the same.

 

* * *

 

Stilinski’s heat started early in the morning one day during class.

Derek was sitting at his desk in the back row when it hit him with the force of a bus. The smell was so thick, so violent and pungent that it nearly whited Derek out. The world sizzled. When he snapped out of it, he saw that Stiles was staring at him, helpless and horrified.  
As Derek stared back, Stiles slowly turned and glanced down at his lap. He was trembling like a leaf, more out of fear than pain at that point. Derek could sense his panic, his distress at the unfamiliar, alien sensations that were slowly beginning to unfurl within his body. Then suddenly, he slumped over the desk and let out an exhale of pain.

Derek didn’t understand. How could anyone be so fucking stupid? So fucking irresponsible? There was absolutely no reason for an omega to not have anyone to help out, even when it was someone as infuriating as Stiles Stilinski. There were volunteers a phone call away. What had possessed him to forgo that help? Derek should have known Stiles Stilinski was as far from sensible as the moon was from the earth.

Another sharp moan, tinged with pain that Stiles was desperately trying to ride out.

Harris, who hated Stilinski and would have happily stood back and watched as he was devoured alive by hissing cockroaches, gamely continued to write on the blackboard, droning on and on about molecules and compounds. But none of the alphas were even pretending to pay attention to the lesson anymore.

Soon, they wouldn’t be able to help themselves (or pretend that they couldn’t help themselves), lining up to take the omega, one after the other, trying to plant their seed deep within him. It would turn into a feeding frenzy, right in the middle of the classroom. It had happened before.

Stiles turned his head and rested the side of his forehead against the desk. His face was flushed, fever spots rising on his skin, sweat dotting his forehead. Thin fingers curled on the desk as his lower body clenched and unclenched, seeking friction to ease the agony. He looked obscene, utterly pornographic, and Derek knew that if he was thinking these thoughts, then the rest would undoubtedly be as well.

A whimper had the teacher whirling around.

“Go to the nurse,” Harris said impatiently. “For fuck’s sake.”

Stiles tried, he did. He tried to push himself up to his feet, but collapsed back down seconds later. He was in no state to walk anywhere.

“Malia, open the window," Harris ordered one of the students. He regarded Stiles with distaste before facing the blackboard again. "Everyone, eyes up here.”

Stiles had begun to cry silently.

Derek pushed back his chair, and stood up. The other alphas all followed him with glinting eyes. Derek ignored them. Walking over, he scooped a hand around the twiggy arm and tugged at the kid to get to his feet. He had to do it again before Stiles came up like a giant doll being pulled out of the lake, waterlogged and heavy.

“Come on,” Derek said. He wrapped an arm around the waist. Stiles was nearly dead weight, stumbling blindly as Derek led him out the room. The hallway was empty, and the air was cool. Not that it seemed to be helping Stiles much; his forehead was beaded with sweat and his eyes were glassy, unseeing.

“Where… where?” Stiles said.

“I don’t know,” Derek said. He caught sight of the restroom, but three feet away from the yellow-dripping urinals while lying on the grubby, cold tiles was not where he wanted to be doing this. Then he saw the entrance to the boy’s locker room, and knew he didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

Stiles was still crying quietly, overwhelmed and scared, a hand pressed against his lower stomach. He let out a gasp, legs buckling. 

“Derek. Please.”

Derek pulled him up, holding him tighter. “It’s okay. I got you. Come on.”

He shouldered his way in, half-dragging Stiles along, and the stink of sweat and unwashed uniforms welcomed them. Inside, some junior was folding towels.

“Leave,” Derek bit out. The guy took one look and did as he was told. The door swished shut and they were alone.

He lowered Stiles onto one of the slotted benches, not taking his hands away until Stiles’ head was resting on the wood. But when Derek reached for the button of Stiles' jeans, a badly shaking hand clasped his wrist.

“No,” Stiles said, then cried out when another cramp hit him. “You don’t want this.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Derek said angrily. “It needs to be done. It’s not going to go away on its own, you know that.”

The pain would be unrelenting, and not taken care of, could last up to a week.

“But you don't - ”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Stiles' chest hitched, tears wetting his temple. Derek wondered what he was thinking, whether he was even capable of thought in his heat-addled state. Derek didn’t think he had ever seen anyone look so hopeless.

“Or do you want someone else?” Derek said.

Already his wolf was rearing its head, snarling viciously at the thought of ceding Stiles over to another alpha. But he needed to ask. “Stiles. You want someone else, you need to tell me now,” he said roughly. He wasn’t going to be one of the multitude of animals who took whatever they wanted, just because they wanted.

“I want it to be you,” Stiles said. "Derek, I want - "

Derek nodded that he understood. God, he was so fucking selfish. It wasn’t right, him doing this, it was the epitome of selfishness, but he wanted so much…  
He tried to focus, setting aside his guilt and self-loathing for the moment. Now was not the time for that. He pulled Stiles’ pants off with some difficulty, sliding it off his ankles and dropping it to the floor. The front of Stiles’ white underwear was drenched see-through and Derek peeled the fabric away. Stiles’ erection lay heavy on his flat stomach, the tip so shiny and swollen, so virulently plum-red that it looked almost fake. Derek fumbled a bit with his own jeans. Both their shirts he left on, a way to remind himself that this wasn’t… wasn’t anything meaningful. Stiles was watching him, face screwed tight in pain, flushed, impatient, fearful that Derek would change his mind midway.

Derek slowly positioned himself between Stiles’ trembling thighs. He left his useless leg to dangle off the bench, knowing he wouldn’t be able to bear much weight on it.

He pushed in, inch by inch, and Stiles’ back arched, bucking and twisting in surprise. With a gasp, both his hands shot out to clutch Derek’s arms, fingers digging into his flesh as he tried desperately to hold himself still.

“Derek,” Stiles said. His name, spoken like a prayer, a balm along a wound that had been festering open for years, and Derek felt like crying upon hearing it. He began to stroke in, and Stiles’ breathing turned whimpery and ragged. He writhed in frustration, trying to get Derek in deeper.

The next few hours became a blur, lost to the fever of having a warm body against his, the act of becoming one with Stiles. He was intoxicated by Stiles’ heat, the way Stiles held him close and refused to let go, at the words that Stiles whispered into his ear, the lips skimming his cheek like a caress. He took Stiles again and again, until, eventually, he lost count of how many times it had been. And it still wasn't enough.

Through it all, he had almost forgotten about his leg. For a while, it was nothing more than something set to the side, a minor buzz in the background. But as Stiles’ heat finally began to dissipate and exhaustion sink in, his limbs turned wooden after hours of holding himself up, and his movements grew slow and sloppy.

One badly-angled thrust bumped his knee all wrong against the wood and he sucked in a hiss when razor-sharp pain danced up his leg. He had to stop, and he rested his forehead against Stiles’ sweat-damp shoulder. Stiles made a sound of distress and his hips rolled helplessly.

“Derek. Don’t. Don’t stop,” he panted. “I need you. Hurts.”

“Yeah, just…” He tried to catch his breath. “Give me a minute.”

Stiles seemed to understand. Hands touched each side of his face reverently, stroking the skin there. “It’s okay. Slow. Slow,” Stiles murmured, still in no state to form coherent sentences. “I’m okay.”

Derek began to move again, wearily, almost wretchedly. He hated himself, because this was all he could give Stiles, this unsatisfying, limited, this utterly pitiful attempt to take care of his m – of Stiles. He couldn’t give it to Stiles as hard as he wanted, as hard as he needed, and here, even through his haze, Stiles was reassuring him and soothing him, when it should have been the other way around...

Stiles pulled him down and pressed their foreheads together, one hand brushing Derek’s dripping hair away from his eyes.

It was nearly over now. The urgency was gone, turning their movements languid and unhurried, less frantic. Derek knew this would be the last time he would ever hold Stiles against him, and the knowledge filled him with the same keen, black despair he experienced when he was given the news by an apathetic doctor that his family was gone.

Stiles was peppering his jaw and cheek with kisses, kisses so sweet and tender that it broke Derek’s heart. “I’m glad it’s you. I’m so, so, glad, Derek. I’m so grateful - ”

And that was too much. Derek came quietly, with a shudder, head wrenched to the side so Stiles wouldn’t see the tears welling in the corner of his eyes, and Stiles followed soon after, as if determined to follow Derek to the bitter end.

Stiles tilted his chin up, silently requesting a kiss, but Derek turned his own head away. The heat was gone now, as if it had never been, and there was no need for any of that. Stiles went still, skin going from furnace-hot to clammy and he began to shiver. He reached out, wanting to wrap around Derek and hug tight, but Derek was pulling away, in every sense of the word.

"No," Stiles said disconsolately, clenching as he tried to keep Derek from slipping out. But Derek got to his feet, gritting his teeth at the unpleasant ant-crawling sensation of feeling returning to numbed muscles.

Stiles pulled himself up from the bench slowly, spine aching after being locked in one uncomfortable position for the past few hours, and his eyes searched Derek’s face with sickening anxiety, looking for signs that Derek might be angry at him. Derek refused to look at him.

“Go in and wash up,” Derek said roughly, indicating the shower room.

Stiles’ mouth parted as if he had been socked in the stomach. “You’re leaving?” he asked, in a small voice.

“No. I’ll be here.” He could do that much, at least. Stiles didn’t deserve to be treated like a one night stand, waking up to empty space on the bed the day after.

Stiles stood for moment as if he didn’t believe Derek, then slowly disappeared behind the tiled wall. There was the squeak of a faucet and the splash of water.

Derek sat on the edge of the bench, the pain in his leg for once in the back of his mind. Only now was he starting to realize all the mistakes he had made. He hadn’t prepared Stiles in any way, no lube, no stretching, simply thinking, if he had been thinking at all, that the heat slick would be enough, and he remembered, horrified, the way Stiles had cried out, sharp and pained, when he entered him. His body seizing up in shock at the sensation of being penetrated.  
He hadn’t worn a condom, and there was a chance of pregnancy, he hadn’t secured an optimal location, safe from predators, and anyone could have come in and pried Stiles away and finished the job in his place. God, he was such a fucking joke.

The one, single consolation was that he hadn’t knotted Stiles. It would be okay. It was almost impossible for a bond to form when a knot hadn’t occurred. So it would be okay. It had to be. Stiles wouldn’t have to be tied to him forever, doomed to spend the rest of his life with a useless, useless wolf.

And as he was thinking this, Stiles stepped out. He had washed with nothing more than water, as quickly as he could, and Derek realized Stiles had been scared he would leave despite his promise that he wouldn’t.

Wordlessly, Derek headed into the stall. There were enough showerheads that taking turns wasn’t necessary, but he couldn’t bear the thought of having Stiles naked and in close proximity to him. He quickly scrubbed himself clean under the stream of hot water, sluicing off the fluids coating his stomach. When he came back out, Stiles was sitting quietly on the bench, clothed, staring down at his lap. Derek reached for his clothes and dressed as quickly as he could.

When they left the locker room, Derek saw that someone had written ‘out of order’ on a sheet of paper with a black marker and taped it to the door. Underneath, in a different colored pen and handwriting, was “omega fucking in session” in small, crude letters.

The hall had been empty when they entered the locker room and it was just as empty now. School had ended some time ago and the building was deserted. The sun was setting over the horizon and the sky was two-toned in orange and blue. They met the janitor in the dim corridor and his wrinkled, dusty face brightened.

“You two all done? Mind if I lock up now?”

“Yes, we’re done,” Derek said. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. Not at all. He take good care of you?” the man said, chuckling. Stiles nodded stiltedly, eyes cast on the floor.

Neither of them said a word as they fetched their bags and left the school grounds. The air was nippy and Stiles soon began to shiver in earnest. Derek took off his jacket and they both stopped so Stiles could put it on. Derek kept his distance, trying not to breathe through his nose, because Stiles smelled so much like he belonged to him that it was taking him all he had not to knock him down and clamp his teeth into the cords of the pale neck until he tasted blood and Stiles was mewling in submission.

This time, Derek walked him all the way. The building was shaped like a huge brick made up of smaller bricks, punctuated with murky windows and limp curtains. An air of dreariness hung over the entire area. Out front, a large sign read **Browne’s Boarding House for Omegas**.

He went up the path leading to the front door, and Stiles trailed behind him, looking like a waif wearing a too-large jacket.

“You need to take the pill,” Derek told him. Stiles glanced up, startled, and nodded.

“Yeah. I’ll do that,” he said quietly.

Derek nodded. This was as far as it went between them. He took a step back.

“Derek,” Stilinski said forlornly. “Wait - ”

“You can give me my jacket back tomorrow,” Derek said. He turned around and forced himself to walk away.

And it was saying something, that in a long list of hard things he’d had to do in his short time on earth, this was one of the hardest.

 

* * *

 

The next day, it was all over school, that cripple Derek Hale had been the one to see Stilinski through his first heat.

“Were you even able to get it up?” Jackson sneered at Derek.

“That would be so humiliating,” said another girl, “having to do it with someone who’s, you know, handicapped.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jackson said. It was hard to believe, once upon a time, that they had been good friends.

They went on, as if he wasn’t even sitting in the room with them a few feet away, as if his ears had gone bad along with his leg. Derek kept his eyes locked on the textbook in front of him and let them talk. It didn’t matter.

 

* * *

 

“Derek.”

Stiles was calling his name from the other end of the hallway. Derek didn’t bother turning around and instead kept going.

“Wait. Derek. Stop.”

There was the rubbery squeak of sneakers on the tiles. One of the curses of having a leg that hurt when you walked was that you couldn’t get anywhere fast. No matter where you went, it was at a snail’s pace. Stiles caught up to him easily and stood square in his way, blocking him. His determined, set face filled Derek’s view.

“We need to talk.”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t have anything say.”

“Well, I do! So you’re going to listen,” Stiles said,

Derek gestured angrily with his arm. _So talk_. He had no choice but to listen. It wasn’t as if he could run off. It would just embarrass everyone involved.

“How are you doing?” Stiles said. He made as if to reach out and touch him, but Derek drew back, going rigid.

“What do you want?” Derek said. He wanted to tell Stiles to stop fucking looking at him that way. The gentle concern in Stiles’ large eyes was unbearable.

Stiles lowered his arms to his sides. The color had returned to his cheeks, but he looked small and lost, fragile. “I wanted… to thank you, I guess. I know you didn’t want to do it. So thank you.”

Derek had known this would happen. He hadn’t wanted to do it because it wouldn’t be like how it was for other alphas, who were merely responding to the mindless, animalistic compulsion to fuck anything in heat. They could walk away after the deed was done without so much as a backward glance, washing their hands completely of the omega they had fucked. But that wasn’t the case for him. The past few weeks with Stiles had been nice, comforting, and without knowing it, the lonely wolf in him had responded to the offering of companionship, to the attention, and the deep-buried desire to form a pack again and have someone to take care of had been awakened. And it was tantamount to a death sentence. He wanted Stiles now, he wanted him so much that it was a physical ache, as tangible as the pain he carried in his leg, the endless pain he carried in his heart, and he didn’t know why, but his wolf kept insisting that Stiles was _his_ …

“There’s nothing to thank me for. You needed help and I gave it to you,” Derek said curtly. End of story. It had been nothing more than inserting tab A into slot B. An act of charity. It was foolishness, making more of it than it actually was. He would only hurt Stiles by doing so. As for his wolf…it was just confused, that was all.  
He tried to step around Stiles, but hands reached out, stopping him in place.

“So, what? You’re never going to talk to me again? Is that your brilliant plan? Gee, Derek. I didn’t think you’d be a ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ kind of guy.”

“Well, I guess you were wrong, then. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Derek, you're not – ”

Derek interrupted him. “I’m late for class,” he said. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing more to say, on both their parts. He limped off.

 

* * *

 

Derek started avoiding Stiles after that. It was difficult, seeing Stiles’ miserable little face everywhere, but the kid seemed to have gotten the message and he no longer followed Derek around like a second shadow. He was withdrawn and he seldom spoke in class, so different from how he used to be, but he left Derek alone. That was the important thing, Derek kept telling himself.

Inexplicably, life went on. But another layer of torture had been added to it now. Because now Derek knew how Stiles tasted on his tongue, knew how Stiles looked as he came, the beautiful noises he made. He could still hear Stiles’ voice in his head, telling him how grateful he was, how he had always wanted Derek.

He cursed the fire for taking everything away from him. Not only his family, but any possibility of happiness with a mate. If it hadn’t been for his leg, he would have courted Stiles properly. He would have been able to be a good alpha – powerful, demanding respect, an excellent provider and protector – one that Stiles would have been proud to be seen with. As it were, he was a godawful joke.

At night, alone in his apartment, he would crawl into bed and lay awake, his leg burning as if it still carried within its bones the fire that had killed his pack, and with all his might, try not to think of the dreary future that awaited him.

 

* * *

 

A new resident had moved into the apartment building. During the early hours of a weekend morning, a small moving van pulled into the parking lot, the size indicating that newcomer didn’t have much. Two stocky men in uniform carried a scant number of furniture and boxes into the first floor apartment, then disappeared in a cloud of black exhaust gas.

After they were gone, Derek could make out a faint trailing noise, as if something large was being rolled on the floor, and wondered what it was.  
Two days later, he met her. She was in a wheelchair, which Derek realized was the source that mysterious noise. A bumper sticker had been pasted on the back of the seat, and Derek read in black letters: **Stop fucking staring at me!** Beneath that, there was another one, a cartoon drawing of a middle finger.

The apartment lacked a wheelchair ramp, and he saw that a rudimentary triangular block of wood had been pressed up against the balcony floor so she could enter and exit through the wider double doors. She was swearing strenuously as she tried to bump a large cardboard box forward and get it to move up the ramp.

“Here, let me,” Derek said. He waited a moment, because Weres were sensitive about other people putting hands on their belongings – more so handicapped Weres, whose pride had already been obliterated by being constantly treated like helpless dirt – and you could end up a pile of raw meat trying to be a Good Samaritan. Only when she gave him a sardonic _be my guest_ smile did he bend down and pick up the box. His leg gave a twinge, but nothing happened, and he straightened back up with a quiet sigh of relief. He stood to the side to let her roll in first, and followed behind her.

Inside, he saw that the layout was the same as his own, and the furnishings were just as meager.

“Just toss it over there,” she said, pointing to the corner. He did as he was told, adding it to some more boxes and a pile of clothes. She had not yet unpacked most of her stuff.

“Thanks a bunch,” she said. “I’d have been out there for hours attempting to get that inside.”

“Not a problem.”

She cracked her neck from side to side. “Fuck. To think there’d be a day when a fucking box made me its bitch.”

She swore a lot, he was beginning to see. He regarded her quietly. She was a few years older than him, maybe by five or six years. Her hair was dyed a vibrant copper red that was beginning to show an inch or two of dark brown at the roots. She had on a black tank top and both arms were covered in sleeve tattoos, most of them pack tribal signs. The artwork was beautiful, but none of that interested Derek anymore.

He would have left but something about her intrigued him. The fact that she was in a wheelchair and couldn’t use her legs put him at ease.

“I’m Derek,” he said impulsively.

“I’m a centaur,” she said.

“Excuse me?” he said, taken aback, already regretting his attempt to strike up a conversation.

“I’m a centaur. Only instead of being half horse, I’m half wheelchair.” She laughed at his expression. “Oh man, you should see your face. You’re thinking I’m insane, aren’t you?”

He didn’t know how to answer that. Luckily, she wasn’t expecting one. Chortling at her own joke, she wheeled herself up to a cabinet under the sink and dipped her head down. There was the clink of glass. When she came back up, Derek saw that she had procured two bottles of beer.

“I’m Paige,” she said. “And I love my booze. And since you so kindly stopped to help, I’m willing to share.”

She expertly smacked the cap on the edge of the counter, sending the lid spinning along the Formica, and then passed the bottle to him. He wasn’t legally allowed to drink yet, but fuck it. No one gave a shit.

He took a polite sip, then immediately struggled to swallow it down before he could rush to the sink and spit it out, which was what he wanted to do. His eyes watered and his chest burned. He knew alcohol for wolves were notoriously strong, but holy crap, this was pure battery acid. It felt as if his organs were being liquefied. Why would anyone pay money to drink this shit?

“First time?” Paige said with a wicked grin.

“Yeah,” he wheezed out, setting the bottle on the counter. He was horrified to see that Paige pried open her own cap using her teeth. She began to drink, chugging it down like a whale and as if she didn’t have a gag reflex.

“Wondering what happened to me, huh?” Paige said.

He was curious, although he would never say as much.

“Spinal cord injury,” she said blithely. “Doctor said I’d never walk again.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” He refrained from asking for details, but she was forthcoming.

“That’s life, I guess. One moment you’re happily cruising along, then the next thing you know, a coked-up son of a teenage bitch smashes your car into smithereens, you have a wheelchair permanently attached to your ass, and your pack is telling you they never want to see your face again.”

He was trying to figure out whether she meant she’d been hit by a teenager, or the son of a teenage mom and it took a moment for the more important part to sink in. “Your pack disowned you?” he said in disbelief.

She grinned savagely. “Yeah. Can you believe that? My own pack kicked me out. Said I was no use to them anymore like this. Said I’d sully their reputation. The fuckers.” She tossed her head back and took a long swig of her beer. 

Derek was stunned. Your own pack. Your own flesh and blood telling you to get lost, you weren’t wanted anymore. The thought frightened him, made him sick to his stomach.  
Would his parents have kicked him out? It was all too easy to imagine Peter turning him away, telling Derek that he was cramping his style, but his parents? Laura and Cora? For one terrible moment, Derek was glad he would never find out. He wiped his mouth, wanting to get rid of the bitterness. His hands were shaking.

Paige wheeled towards the box Derek had brought in. Pulling out a pocketknife from her jacket pocket, she stabbed it into tape holding the sides together and dragged it through. She rummaged around the box, taking things out and setting them to the side. A book. A green sweater. A large dartboard.

“I have no idea why I bought this with me. Should have smashed it repeatedly over his fucking head until his skull cracked,” she said irately.

Derek had no idea who she was talking about, but didn’t ask.

“What happened to you?” she said, still looking down at the dartboard she had set on her lap. She was stroking it almost absently. “Don’t be shy. Tit for tat.”

He supposed it was only fair. “There was a fire. At home.”

“And you burned your leg?”

He still found it difficult to talk about and he spoke haltingly. “No. I mean, yes, that too. But the ceiling collapsed and landed on my leg, broke it in four places. It didn’t heal properly, for whatever reason, and it never went back to normal. I can’t use it very well.”

“Yeah? Is it one of those legs that can’t feel anything?” She held up a dart, her grin mischievous, and flicked her thumb along the pointed end. “Like if I stick this in your thigh without you knowing it, you won’t notice it at all?”

“No, I’ll feel it. All it does is hurt.” He didn’t add that sometimes the pain was so bad it kept him up at night.

“Hmm. And your pack?”

His mouth moved, but he couldn't get the words out.  "Dead. All nine of them," he finally managed to say.

“Oh,” Paige said somberly. “I'm so sorry. That fucking sucks.”

“Yeah.” It kind of did.

“C’est la vie,” she proclaimed. “That’s French for ‘life fucking sucks.’”

He stared glumly out at the parking lot and the old, rusty cars. “Yeah,” he echoed.

He glanced up when a hand patted him on the shoulder.

“Well. Nice to meet you, fellow leg cripple,” she said.

Had anyone else said it, it would have pissed him off, but he supposed he didn’t have the right to get pissy, not when she had lost the use of both legs. He felt a strange affinity towards her. Fellow leg cripple, indeed.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he said.

He stayed, making small talk until she finished her beer, and then his beer, and then another beer out of the cabinet. And true, it didn’t take her all that long to finish the three bottles, maybe ten minutes, tops, but as he left her place, telling her goodnight, he realized it was the most he had spoken to anyone in a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all who bear with me while I laboriously update my fics. This was initially slated to be two chapters, but then I added a third, which will definitely be the final chapter. 
> 
> Not that I have a really good bead on her, but Paige is kind of OOC in this; I don't know why I've turned her into some kind of IDGAF biker-chick (I kept thinking of Erica as I wrote her character) but, oh well. Too late to change anything now.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

Stiles would be in heat again soon. He was young, and for the next few years, his heats would be brutal and frequent. He went around school dripping that spicy fragrance unique to omegas in pre-heat, and once again, after another month of ignoring him, the alphas were perking up and crawling out of the woodwork, frenzied in their efforts to impress him. Stiles ignored them, as he had the first time around, but while he had previous watched their vain attempts with amusement and not without some scorn, now he simply showed no reaction.

He spent most of his classes with his head on his desk, sleeping, not even the threats of detention able to keep him awake. During the rare times he managed to keep his head up, he seemed dazed. Derek knew something was wrong when he saw how sluggish and sapped of energy he was.

Once, he chanced to see Stiles’ slipping into the nurse’s office, and he quickly followed behind him. He pressed himself to the side of the open door, straining to listen. The conversation drifted towards him in a soft murmur of voices.

“How long has this been going on?” the nurse was asking.

“Um,” Stiles said wearily. He sounded utterly exhausted. “Since my first heat. So about a month.”

“Is there anything you can give me for my headaches? They’re so bad I can’t sleep. Or do anything, really.”

“And this is only your head?”

“...My chest, too. It feels like someone's sitting on it.”

“Is there ever a time when the pain lessens?”

Stiles gave a watery sigh. “They get slightly better when I come to school.”

“School? Interesting. Most times school is the cause, not the cure,” the nurse said, laughing.

Stiles didn’t laugh along with her. When he spoke, he spoke like someone who was too tired to find anything funny anymore. “Is there anything you can give me?” he asked again, as if he were interested in nothing else. “I might literally take anything at this point.”

“Your heat is coming up soon, isn’t it?” the nurse said.

“Yes. In a day or two. Maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Well... " she said thoughtfully, drawing out the word. "I think the best course of action would be to wait it out. Have you found a heat mate yet?”

Derek stopped breathing and waited for Stiles to reply.

“I put in a request with the boarding house. They said they’d…” Stiles sighed again. “Procure one for me.

“Yes. They have several on standby, don’t they?” She bustled around and there was the sound of drawers opening and shut. “No one at the school managed to catch your fancy?No? Well, either way, what I’d do is I’d ask for someone with plenty of experience.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“Oh, yes, indeed it does. A huge difference. The headaches may be a byproduct of being with an unskilled alpha. They failed to “knock the heat out of you” so to speak, and it’s still in your system, like a virus.”

“…That makes sense, I guess.”

“Never tell them that, though. You know how fragile their egos are.”

“Right,” Stiles said.

“I’m sure once that’s taken care of, your stats will be at the prime level. You’ll be good as new. Better even. It all depends on who takes care of you.”

“Right,” Stiles said again, sounding like he wanted to curl up and sleep.

Unable to stand it any longer, Derek slunk away, cheeks burning red with shame.

 

Stiles didn’t come to school the next day. 

Derek stared at the empty seat all throughout class, and wondered if Stiles' heat had started. If that procured someone was knocking the heat out of him right that moment. He felt murderous.

When he looked down, he saw that his claws had come out and left thin grooves in the wood. He lowered his hands under the desk before anyone noticed. Knowing how selfish he was being, he tried to amend his thoughts. So that whomever Stiles was with, he would take good care of Stiles and put him back together again, whole and new and pain-free.

But the desire very much remained, to maul the fucking alpha’s face off.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was gone for a week. Derek spent those five days at school feeling sick to his stomach. During the weekend, he sat perched on the old radiator, staring vacantly at the nicotine-stained wall in front of him, ignoring the sharp metal ridges of the radiator digging into his ass. He was so lonely that it was unbearable, and his thoughts kept turning dark and despairing.

From time to time, he would glance at the pantry shelves, and he would become restless, startled at how bare they were, panicked with the thought that he needed to provide, that it wouldn’t do to have his kitchen so poorly stocked. Then reality would set in, and with it would come the realization that Stiles would never be coming back to his apartment. He would never again sit on that rickety chair and eat Derek’s food. It had been a one-time deal.

Monday morning, he returned to school with a heavy heart. After spending two days caged in the gloom of his apartment, the laughter and bright chatter of the other students were jarring. It was incomprehensible how everyone could be so happy, so _carefree_ , when his world was crumbling around him.

The moment the lunch bell rang, he couldn’t escape fast enough. He went outside to his area next to the school building and sat down on the wooden bench. The murmur of the student body faded into white noise. The cold air felt nice on his skin. He scrubbed at the side of his face, indescribably tired. He had forgotten – or hadn’t bothered, rather – to shave, and the line of his jaw was thick and prickly with hair.

When he lifted his head, he saw Stiles standing there in front of him. His face was still pale and pinched, and there was a tallow hue to his skin. He looked unhealthy.

“Mind if I eat my lunch with you?” Stiles said, taking a step closer. A brown bag dangled from one hand.

Derek took too long trying to come up with a way to say no, and Stiles quickly clambered up onto the bench and sat down beside him while he dithered. Stiles took out a sandwich bagged in clear plastic. He then took out a small carton of juice and pulled off the straw stuck on the side. The peanut butter and the jelly stuck between the two slice of bread smelled old and refrigerator-y.

Derek found himself taking deep, discreet inhales, trying to detect traces of another wolf inside Stiles. With a great effort, he made himself stop. He had no business.

“Aren’t you eating anything?” Stiles said, after a few minutes of thick silence between them. His eyes went to Derek’s lap. “Want some of my sandwich? I don’t have much of an appetite.”

Derek felt like an idiot for staying mute and giving Stiles the silent treatment, so he gave a curt shake of his head. He rarely ate breakfast or lunch, and only had a small meal by himself at home in the evening. He simply came out to this dilapidated bench outside to be alone.

Stiles seemed determined not to be deterred by his sullen mood. He slowly ate his lunch and drank his apple juice. Derek watched him discreetly from the corner of his eyes, his heart twinging at the way the long, tapered fingers tore off pieces of the sandwich and brought it up to his mouth, the way the sunlight lit the tips of his long eyelashes. Derek wanted to ask if he was feeling any better, if his headaches were finally gone, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He simply didn’t have the guts.

He wondered who had taken care of Stiles for his second heat, if Stiles had preferred him over Derek. He imagined them lying in bed afterwards, their sweaty bodies tangled under the sheets, Stiles drowsily murmuring into the alpha's ear that he was so much better than his first partner.

“I’ve been thinking,” Stiles said suddenly, interrupting his miserable thoughts. “I think we should be friends. It’s silly, sidestepping each other like this, keeping this wall between us. There’s no reason for any of that.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

“So we’re friends. Okay?” Stiles said decisively, as if Derek had no other choice. He looked at Derek as if daring him to argue. “No more avoiding me.”

Derek continued to stare down at his hands, hating himself for not telling Stiles to get lost.

 

* * *

 

Derek had decided that ignoring Stiles would be the safest bet, but Stiles made it difficult to ignore him. It was just like a month and a half ago, when he followed Derek around everywhere like a little duckling. He would come up to Derek during lunch and find him here and there around school and sit with him.

Derek knew it wasn’t good for either one of them, and he tried to get rid of Stiles once or twice, but Stiles was nothing if not tenacious. Derek kept justifying the situation by telling himself that nothing would happen between them. Hadn’t Stiles gone to another wolf instead of him the second time around? He didn’t want Derek anymore, not like that. This was just pity on Stiles’ part, his attempt to be a good friend for a while, to pay Derek back for helping him out. Eventually he’d lose interest and drift away like wisps of smoke, just like everyone else.

But until then, Stiles seemed determined to stick to him like gum on a shoe.

Because Derek had stayed behind a year, he and Stiles had one or two classes together. They sat far apart. Derek preferred to stay hidden in the far back, while Stiles tended to sit in the very front row, right up in the teacher’s face.

To Derek’s huge dismay, at the start of the period, the teacher announced that there would be a small group project. He gave them the instructions, then held out a black pouch to the nearest student, telling her to pass it around. The first half of the class would draw names, and be paired up with someone from the second half.

Derek hated working in teams. Resigned, he remained immobile in his seat, knowing that he’d find out who his partner was soon enough. Whoever it was, they were bound to raise a huge stink about having ended up with him.

Then again, maybe not. He raised his head to see Stiles scrambling his way over.

“Guess it’s you and me,” Stiles said, showing off the scrap of paper on which Derek’s name was written in the teacher’s aggressive handwriting.

Derek knew Stiles had swapped names with someone else, but he had no strength left to argue. Plus, it would be a hassle, trying to get his original partner back. He shrugged, feigning indifference.

A few days later, they met up after school to work on the assignment. It was fairly straightforward as projects went: watch a documentary and then give a ten minute oral presentation.

The problem was where to watch the documentary. Derek didn’t have a television at home, and although there was lounge with an ancient TV at Stiles’ boarding house, it was obvious Stiles didn’t enjoy spending his time there. Derek remembered him saying that he couldn’t wait to turn 18 so he could leave.

“It’s not really a home,” Stiles had told him once. “It’s a place where I stay, until I don’t have to anymore.”

And unfortunately, Derek more than understood.

So the school library had been the only remaining choice. When they got there, the librarian snapped her gum and pointed to the media center in the back. She reminded them to keep the volume low and that she would be locking up in 45 minutes. Her eyes followed them mistrustfully as they left the counter.

There was a small collection of DVDs on the shelf. Stiles kept asking for Derek’s opinion as he scoped their options and Derek kept grunting that anything was fine, he didn’t care.

Stiles flipped over another case and took a few seconds to read the description. “Okay. This one looks promising. How about it?”

Derek grunted again. For a second, Stiles looked like he very much wanted to slap Derek across the face with the plastic case.

“Fine,” he decided, clearly fed up. “Let’s just go with this.”

They went into a small, soundproofed room where a clunky TV was set out in the corner. Derek sat down on the floor. He unfolded his legs straight out so they wouldn’t cramp up under his weight. The carpet was an old-fashioned blue, crumbs and balls of dust pushed into the edges and corners of the wall.

“Okay, here we go,” Stiles said, muttering to himself as he slid the disc into the tray. The machine swallowed it with a whirring click, and the screen changed from black to a luminous blue. Stiles went over to the door and switched off the lights. Having done that, he came back to where Derek was sitting, and scooted up beside him, nestling against the large cushions.

“Is your leg okay?” Stiles said.

“Yes,” Derek said, embarrassed at the concern. He inched away so there was no danger of them touching. 

The documentary started and they both fell silent. Different people came on screen and talked about this and that in their dry voices. Derek soon lost interest and his attention slid away.

He didn’t know how much time passed. When he sneaked a glance to the side, he saw that Stiles had fallen asleep, head resting on his forearm. His fingers were curled loosely around the remote control.

The dark room created an intimate, dream-like atmosphere. Stiles’ cheek was slimmer, as if he was losing his baby fat. His mouth was parted slightly, the lips swollen with sleep. Derek wanted to slip his thumb into that pink softness, then wake him up with gentle kisses. He wanted to taste Stiles’ again, to have him naked beneath him, to drink from between his legs. He wanted so much…

Derek barely registered the end of the film. The screen glowed blue over their skin as he memorized the intricate details of Stiles’ face. Derek couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Stiles finally began to stir and Derek quickly averted his eyes. Stiles stretched, his arms stiffening straight out over his head.

“How much did I miss?” Stiles said, groaning softly, arching like a cat.

“Most of it,” Derek muttered.

“Shit.”

Stiles rubbed at face, then hid a huge yawn against his arm. “Shit,” he said again. “I’m so tired all the time.”

Derek slowly got to his feet, careful not to let his leg lock up. Now that it was over, there was no need for them to be in this room together. He slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

“Derek,” Stiles said, voice deceptively casual.

Derek paused. The doorknob was cold in his hand. “…Yeah?”

“You want to go have dinner?”

Derek hated how Stiles’ eyes were dark and anxious as he waited for him to answer.

“What do you say?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on. You have to be hungry. You didn’t even – ”

“No.”

“Derek, I - ”

“I said no.”

“You mind letting me finish a sentence now and then?”

“I have to go,” Derek said. 

On his way out, the librarian started sniping at him, that they had better have everything back in order, she wasn't going to spend a minute longer than necessary just to tidy up after them and - 

He glared at her so fiercely that she clamped her mouth shut and shriveled behind the computer. It was as if these idiotic humans had forgotten that he could still maul them to death in seconds if he so wished. He shoved his way out the glass doors and walked outside.

 

* * *

 

He limped home in a bad temper. As he was passing the front of the building, he saw Paige out on the cement deck. She was in the middle of watering her small succulents from a large plastic bowl. 

“You’re late,” she greeted him as he walked up the sidewalk and stopped a few feet away from her. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She hated it when she tilted her head against the back of the wheelchair and her hair got in the way. "Why are you late?"

The afternoon was coming to an end. The sun was going down, lighting up the sky in shreds of pink and orange, and the moon was an icy circle in the horizon.

“I had a school project.”

Paige wasn’t very interested. “Cool.”

A small metal-studded clutch hung from her wheelchair handlebar. He realized that she had been waiting for him.

“I was about to go get some groceries. Want to come with?” Paige said.

He was about to decline, when she spoke again.

“I’m in desperate need of food,” she said.

What he wanted was to change clothes and wipe himself clean of Stiles’ scent, but he wasn’t so dense as to be unable to read between the lines. She was asking for help. So he nodded that he would.

“Great. Let’s go.” She set aside the bowl and closed her veranda doors. She stuck a pair of sunglasses over her eyes.

“How do I look?” she asked, spreading her arms out to the side.

Derek hated when girls asked him that question. He had no idea how to answer. “…Good,” he said.

They went together, side by side on the weed-sprouted sidewalk. The road was dusty and Derek began to sweat under his shirt. The muscles in his leg ached. Cars blared by, some of them honking at them, and Paige responded with good-natured viciousness by flipping them the bird. She matched his pace and he was too tired to let it bruise his pride. It was slow going, but they chatted sporadically, and neither of them had anywhere else to be.

The sky was slightly darker by the time they arrived at the store. A frigid gust of air swept over him the moment he stepped through the doors and it revived him slightly. Paige took out a crumpled grocery list and a pencil. He followed behind Paige as she rolled around the aisles, and took down for her the items she couldn’t reach.

"Why are you so mopey today?" Paige asked as she tossed a bag of sweets onto the pile. "Well, more so than usual, I guess. You're always a little bit mopey."

"I'm not," he said.

"Uh-huh."

" _I'm not_ ," he insisted, fully knowing that he was. How could he not be? He couldn't get Stiles' dejected face out of his mind. It weighed at him heavily.

"If you say so. Shit, I eat so much junk." She briefly debated whether or not to get the bag of chips. "All right, I have everything I need."

The young girl behind the cash register stared curiously at Paige until Paige pulled her lips back and bared her teeth at her. They hung the bags on the wheelchair handles and walked the long way back to the apartment. By the time they arrived, their clothes were dusty and his throat was itchy.

“Want some water?” Paige asked as he helped unload the plastic bags, scattering food over the counter.

“No, I’m fine,” he said, coughing into his fist.

“Just set that up there. And could you put this up there for me?” she said, handing him a frozen package of meat and indicating the refrigerator.

“Six o’clock tomorrow,” she said, as he was closing the freezer door.

“What?”

“Dinner. I’m making chicken parmesan. Or meatloaf, I haven’t decided yet. But either way, I’ll make it worth your while. Be here.”

“I don’t – ”

“And bring some dishwashing soap. I’m out of dishwashing soap.”

He was irritated. “Then why didn’t you buy some while we were at the store?”

She ignored him. “Bonus points if its lemon scented. Remember! Six. Don’t be late.”

He sighed as he watched her wheel away. He’d always been a pushover with his sisters as well. Some things never changed.

The next day, he found himself coming down the staircase, bottle of dish detergent in hand. He cut through the grubby, yellow-tinged grass and entered into her apartment through the open set of glass doors. She snatched away the soap.

“This isn’t lemon,” she said, making a face.

“I never said it was.”

“Sit down,” she said, flapping her hand. She took out a casserole dish from the convection oven, lifted up the foil covering and poked at it despite the bubbling oil on the surface. “The food’s almost done,” she said as she licked off her thumb.

He was surprised at the food she had made. He had thought they would be mostly things out of plastic sleeves heated up in the microwave, but no, that was certainly not the case. She had made neither meatloaf nor chicken, but some type of casserole that was covered in a gooey layer of cheese. There was also a leafy salad with small beets and slivers of carrots. He was impressed. There was a peculiar twinge in his chest. It was difficult to remember the last time he had sat down at the table and had a proper meal.

She fetched a can of beer and tipped it carefully into an empty glass, the foam rising white and fizzy to the surface. They began to eat. She talked while they ate, and he tried to keep up, answering at the appropriate moments.

“Do you like it?” she asked, after a while.

He had been distracted, and he tried to bring his attention back to her.

“Was it okay? The food,” she said.

“Yes, everything was really good. Thank you.”

“You’re so formal,” she said teasingly. “I bet you were such a goody two-shoes back in the day.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was.”

“A softie who looks like a serial killer. I bet you heard that one too, right? A serial killer?”

“Yeah. I did. Quite a few times.”

She laughed. “It’s the brows.”

They began to clear off the table.

“Looks can be deceiving, you know? I used to cook a lot, although I don’t look like it. I look more like someone who’d burn the kitchen down,” she said, lifting up an arm to indicate the tattoos swirling around her skin. She continued, a bit more soberly, “but yeah, I was a very good cook. No one left disappointed.”

She was rather sentimental tonight. She couldn't stop talking.

“Paul used to be so proud of me. He used to say I was the best thing to have ever happened to him.”

Paul. The one who used to own the dartboard, Derek assumed. The offending item hung from the living room wall. A large photograph of a man’s head was pinned to the circle, with several darts stuck in various places around his face, making it appear as if he’d had a nasty run-in with a porcupine. Paige had stabbed a dart into each eye. 

Paige noticed what he was looking at.

“He looks better that way, believe me,” she said. She began scraping the leftovers into a plastic dish. “Do you have someone? A girl?”

“No,” he responded.

“A boy?”

“No.”

But maybe he hesitated a second too long or she heard the thudding of his heartbeat. Her eyes went knowing and sly.

“Is he cute?”

 _Very cute_ , Derek didn’t say.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Paige said, eyes lighting up. “Does he go to your school? That’s adorable.”

“Can we talk about something else?” The words came out clipped and curt.

“Sure. Why not?” she said.

It was quiet for a few seconds, and he was beginning to breathe again, grateful that she understood and was willing to let it go, when –

“Is he good in bed?”

He should have known she wouldn’t give up that easily. Although he was rigid with anger, he tried to remain civil. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I just helped him through his heat. That’s all it was.”

She looked at him as if he were an idiot. “You broke up with him, didn’t you? After the fire.”

He rubbed his forehead, feeling nauseous. “No. He was never my – mine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, why did you break up with him?”

What kind of question was that? Why did she think?

“Is it because of your leg? Because if so, that’s a fucked up reason.”

He slammed the dish into the sink, a snarl in the breath he exhaled. She raised both her palms up in surrender.

“Fine. We won’t talk about it anymore. Geez. Touchy, aren’t we?”

She seemed amused by his bad temper more than anything. There was something big sister about her that reminded him of Laura, who had enjoyed teasing him mercilessly when she thought he was being a moody teenager. He didn’t appreciate it.

He stiltedly thanked her for dinner, because good manners had been ingrained in him since birth, then fled upstairs.

 

* * *

 

He was back in the storage room in the school. His leg was hurting too badly for him to concentrate and he had walked out of the classroom just as class was starting. The teacher had let him go without a word.

The air seeping out of the ventilation was tepid and smelled like old mushrooms.

He wondered what the hell he was doing. Why he was bothering to come to school every day, lugging around this damaged body of his 20 minutes both ways, when everything was a waste of time and effort. There was no purpose to this madness.

He tried to keep his mind devoid of the thoughts that so often tried to drag him down into a black depression. A few minutes of respite, was that too much to ask for? There were times when he seriously considered a lobotomy – just pry pieces of his brain out like lint – and no longer possess the ability to remember or feel or think.

The mattress, the secluded area and the fuzzy air rather made good conditions for falling asleep. In time, he became drowsy. His eyes fluttered shut and his mind slipped into a dark haze.

In his sleep, he was only vaguely aware of the door whispering open, the tread of feet softly making their way up to him. He couldn’t be bothered to wake up. A weight settled against him, careful not to put pressure on his leg. A pleasant scent was filling his nose and seeping into his lungs. He barely registered the front of his pants being tugged open and the brush of nimble fingers along his skin. A band of warmth engulfed him, its pressure and rhythm both wet and sweet. The pain in his leg waned, eclipsed by a strong pull between his legs, pleasurable beyond description. The muscles in his lower stomach clenched one final time before the exquisite release.

His eyes fluttered opened and he stared up at the orange peel ceiling, every cell in his brain blitzed out.

 _What?_ he thought drunkenly.

He jerked his head up to find Stiles draped between his legs, his fly open and his dick wrapped in Stiles’ hand.

They stared at each other. Stiles looked like a deer in the headlights, eyes large, heart thumping madly. His mouth was parted slightly, a smear of white frosting his lips.

“What - ” Derek began to say. His tongue lay heavy in his mouth like a wad of cooked liver.

Then suddenly, Stiles was surging upwards. Their teeth clacked together, and Derek pulled him in, wrapping his arms tightly around Stiles. There was a hint of something salty underneath the kiss, and Derek realized he was tasting himself. He cupped a hand against the curve of Stiles’ cheek, pulling him closer.

Bliss. It was bliss. He wasn’t ever going to let go. He was going to keep Stiles for himself and love him and no one would ever take him from Derek…

Stiles made a small noise. “Derek, I - ”

Derek grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away.

“No - ” Stiles said brokenly. “No, Derek – ”

Stiles was trying to reach for him again and Derek struggled to keep him at arm’s length, his hands on each side of the shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Derek said, his voice thick.

He pushed himself up, elbows poking into the mat, his leg protesting at the sudden movement. Stiles scrambled unsteadily to his feet along with Derek.

“Derek. Wait. I’m sorry,” Stiles said fretfully. “No, no. Derek, please.”

Derek tucked himself back in, cursing when his shaking hand fumbled with the zipper of his jeans. He could still feel Stiles’ mouth around him, the warmth cooling off so rapidly that he was almost shivering.

“I shouldn’t have done that. Wait. Don’t go.”

Stiles was frantic. Derek kept moving, pushing him aside, and all the while Stiles clung on.

“I’m sorry. I had no right. It’s just that my headaches have been so bad and – ”

And sucking his dick would make it go away. Right.

“This was a bad idea,” Derek muttered.

“What was a bad idea?”

“I don’t want to be friends with you.” He knew it was such a childish thing to say, but he pushed it out, because keeping his distance from Stiles was the only way to protect them both.

Stiles looked faint. “Derek. Please. Don’t do this…I’m really sorry.”

Derek was dangerously close to tossing Stiles back on the mat and fucking him raw, to knot him and stamp his scent deep within him, onto every inch of skin inside and out, so that everyone would know that he was taken… and Stiles would have no choice but to be his…being free wouldn’t even be an option any longer. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that when he opened them again, the world was a burst of dizzy yellow.

He didn’t know why Stiles insisted on making things so difficult, acting like the two of them made sense and that there could be a _them_.

Stiles was still in a panic, pouring out apologies. Derek cut him off.

“I don’t want to be friends with you. Got it?”

He couldn’t ruin Stiles’ life. It was better this way.

Stiles made a choked sound.

“Stay away from me,” Derek said.

He hoped for Stiles’ sake that, this time, he would listen.

 

* * *

 

He spent the weekend just as he had done the weekend before, staring at the wall and listening to Paige’s wheelchair rolling around downstairs. The apartment was still and silent. A tomb.

The next time he bumped into Stiles in the school hallway, he was horrified. There were smudges of purple under Stiles’ eyes and for one furious second, Derek thought that he’d been punched. Rage overtook him. He was going to eviscerate whomever had laid a hand on Stiles, he was going to… Then he realized, with an equal amount of horror, that they weren’t bruises at all but rather dark circles so bad that they looked like bruises.

Stiles ducked his head as he passed by Derek without a word.

Derek told himself to get used to it; this was, once again, to be his new normal.

 

* * *

 

Their presentation was a wreck, to say the least. They bungled through it somehow, Derek standing in the back and staring grimly at the ground and not helping out one bit, while Stiles did the lion’s share of the talking. He was no longer the vibrant, smiling teenager he had been several weeks ago; rather his voice was lackluster and listless, the volume only a fraction of what it used to be. He looked ill.

The audience was just as uninterested, waiting impatiently for them to wrap up and end their second-hand embarrassment.

“Any questions?” the teacher asked on their behalf when Stiles was finally done. There were none. Derek and Stiles kept still, neither of them looking at the other. There was a huge, insurmountable chasm between them.

Then mercifully, it was over. Derek clumped to the back of the classroom and hunkered down in his chair. Stiles glanced his way one final time with his flat, bruised eyes, then turned around to face the front.

Thirty-two more days before graduation. A little over a month. He could do this.

 

* * *

 

Derek was in Paige’s apartment, setting out the dingy forks and knives on the table. She invited him over for dinner fairly often these days and he accepted when it was too much of a hassle to come up with an excuse. She cooked frequently, and he was glad to see her stray away from the greasy fast food that had been her main staple when she first moved in.

He offered to come early and help, but she told him she didn’t particular enjoy having someone with her in the kitchen while she moved around.

“You’ll just get under my wheels,” she said.

Tonight it was macaroni and cheese, with green dots of peas and chunks of ham. The food was good, if a bit salty, but he didn’t complain and ate every last bite. Paige seemed to prefer her food on the saltier side.

The apartment was no longer as sparse. There were a green candle set out and lit in the corner, the flames dancing over the walls and releasing artificial scents of pear and juniper. Small pots of succulents lined the windowsills and the number of books on the shelves had increased. It was as if she was beginning to live again.

“You’re quiet,” Paige said.

He glanced up, startled. He had been staring down at his dish as if hypnotized, fork in his hand.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, trying to get his head back on track. “I’m not… I’ve never been… interesting.”

She shrugged. The day was chilly, but she was wearing a tank top and he saw that she had wolf paw tattoos a few inch beneath each clavicle, right where the slope of her breasts began. “I didn’t mean quiet in a bad way. I like having you over.”

“Oh,” he said.

“You’re not as boring as you think you are.”

He nodded. That was good.

“You make excellent eye candy, if nothing else,” she said, then peered at him. “Oh my goodness, you’re blushing. That’s so cute.”

She offered him coffee as black as jet fuel, but he declined, knowing that it would keep him awake all night. He couldn’t afford to lie in bed alone with his merciless thoughts hacking away at his mind. Afterwards, he helped clean up by washing the dishes and setting them on the rack to dry as Paige watched with satisfaction.

“Thanks. I love a man who does the dishes.”

Derek smiled a little. He could remember how his mom had often said the same thing, that she loved seeing his dad vacuum or fix a broken cabinet or beam around the house. She’d once made a joke about his hammer, causing his sisters to erupt in a chorus of _ewws_. Always slow on the uptake, Derek hadn’t understood the entendre and he’d privately taken Laura aside to ask what it meant. She had been gobsmacked. 

Paige gestured at him.

"You have something on your face,” she said. He brushed at his cheek and she laughed in amusement. “It’s still there. Come here, let me.”

She motioned with her fingers. He lowered himself down so that he was within reach. The pad of her thumb skimmed along the corner of his mouth. 

He should have seen it coming.

He jolted slightly as hands cupped his neck, pulling him closer. She kissed the way she did everything else: bold and unapologetic. 

“Paige,” he said quietly, arms hanging motionlessly at his side. She drew back a fraction. Her eyes were sad and green.

“Why not?” she murmured against his lips.

She tried to kiss him again, but he pulled away, twisting his head to the side.

“Derek. Don’t be like that. I’m not all dead down there.”

The words made him dizzy and he drew in a long breath. Her scent was warm and enticing, and for a second, he thought of the comfort her body would bring if he accepted what she was offering. He gently took her hands away from his crotch and set them on her lap.

“Sorry,” she said, then shook her head. “I get so lonely sometimes.”

“Yeah.” He understood. He was all too familiar with that feeling.

“I miss having someone to hold. You know?”

He did. He waited while she swiped at her eyes.

“You should talk to him.”

“Who?”

“Who?” she repeated, stabbing the word like a knife. “The person who owns your heart, you idiot. The one who’s making you walk around like you’re already dead.”

“There’s nothing between us.”

She rolled her eyes. A tear leaked down her cheek and she brushed it off angrily. “You’re such a horrible liar.”

“I’m not lying. It was just. Nothing. He just needed me for his heat.”

“Oh, please,” she exclaimed, with another roll of her eyes. “He didn’t throw you away, did he, like yesterday’s trash? Like Paul did to me! Your human fucking wants you! Do you not see how huge that is? Nobody wants us. Nobody! And you’re rejecting that out of some misguided sense of duty?”

“I’ll ruin his life," he said.

“So fucking noble,” she sneered. “Such a martyr.”

“I’m done having this conversation with you.”

“Yeah, run away. You’re apparently really good at that.”

He was sick of this. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know anything about him. He left her apartment without another word.

 

* * *

 

The days crept by.

People were getting excited for the arrival of winter and many of the shops were decorating their front with long garlands of pine and red ribbons. The neighborhood was turning festive.

He hadn’t spoken to Paige since that night he walked out of her apartment. He could still hear the wheelchair moving restlessly about, the sticky tread of rubber over tiles. At times the sour smell of cheap beer wafted upstairs, and he knew she was drinking again.

All he could think about was Stiles. The few times he did see him, the kid was almost always asleep. In class, on the bleachers during gym, on one of the benches lining the school building during lunch hour. There were rumors that he was sick and dying, that he was pregnant, that Derek Hale had given him AIDS, never mind the fact that werewolves couldn’t carry diseases.

Even now, as they waited for the teacher to arrive, Derek saw that Stiles had his head on his desk again, face hidden in the crook of his arms, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head.

They all smelled the metallic tang of blood at the same time.

One of the girls inhaled, nostrils flaring. “Why am I smelling blood? Is someone on the rag?”

“It’s not me,” her friend said, with a scandalized laugh.

“No, seriously.” Erica sniffed, and wandered around the aisle. She stopped in front of Stiles’ desk and peered down at him. “I think it’s him. Stiles. Hey, Stiles.”

He didn’t budge and they laughed together.

“Fuck. He’s so out of it. I think he’s dead. Hey, Stilinski!” She gave the chair leg a mighty kick, and finally, he lifted his head like a wobbly baby bird, as if that one simple move was too much effort. He made a small inquiring noise, his eyes glazed and almost unseeing.

“Your nose,” Erica said, circling over her own nose with a finger. “You’re leaking.”

Stiles dabbed at his upper lip and his fingertips came back smeared red. He stared at it vacantly, without much reaction, then slowly pulled a folded wad of tissue from his hoodie pocket. He pressed it against his nostrils, and lowered his head back on the desk.

The two girls looked at him in horror, then burst into giggles.

“He’s so out of it,” Erica said in a hushed voice.

 Derek stared at the sleeping boy, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

 

* * *

 

Derek sat in the brightly lit office of the career counselor. Every senior was required to meet with her before the end of the year and she had called him in, saying that it was their turn to talk.

Her desk was a mess, her wall adorned with photographs of her and two young children, their cheeks bunched up together as they smiled into the camera. They shared her wide mouth. The chair was uncomfortable.

“Derek,” she said, then took a long slurp of her coffee. She was a woman in her thirties and had been with the school for almost a decade.  Laura hadn't liked her, saying that she was a bitch. Derek was beginning to see why.

“Derek,” she said again, as she carefully set the mug down. Beside her elbow was a file, a small stack of papers tucked inside a manila file like a taco. His records, he assumed.

She began tapping the end of the pencil on her notepad. His name, he saw, was written at the top in looping graphite. Derek Hale. For some reason, there was a question mark after it.

“It’s high time for you to be thinking about your future, if you haven’t started already.”

She spoke as if they had mutually agreed that college was out of the question, never mind the fact that his grades were consistently excellent. Not enough to make valedictorian or anything, but enough that even the top schools wouldn’t have been out of the realm of possibility.

“So, tell me. What are your plans?” she said.

“I’m getting a few applications ready,” Derek said. His eyes went back to that single question mark on her notepad. What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

She tilted her head, and her wavy brown hair made her look like a curious Cocker Spaniel. “Oh? Applications? For what?”

“College.”

“Oh?” she said, masking her surprise, but not very well.

“Yup, college,” he said, just to see her cringe as if he was saying a dirty word that was making her uncomfortable.

“College is very expensive, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I have some money,” he said. Insurance. A substantial inheritance that was supposed to go three ways that was now all his. “And my grades are good.”

He had no idea why he was telling her all this, it was none of her fucking business, quite frankly, but she was looking at him with all this inhuman patience, as if he was being dense and it would be a great act of compassion and mercy to help him see the light.

She clasped her hands together and regarded him gravely from over the bridge of her fingers. “But do you think it’s worth it? I apologize for being blunt. But scores aren’t everything,” she said.

He knew that it would be impossible to find and hold down a good job, even one that didn’t demand a lot of activity. A physically flawed Were was a mentally flawed Were. The two went hand in hand.

He wondered how she would react if he told her he wanted to become a lawyer like his mom. Or follow in his dad’s footsteps and pursue medicine. Would she get all flustered and beat around the bush as she tried to figure out how to soften the blow, or would she scoff in his face and flat out tell him to get real, not happening, not in a million years?

“I’d like to keep my options open,” he said.

“Your options,” she said. She seemed a bit dumbfounded, as if he were speaking a foreign language. Maybe he was. She was losing control of the conversation.

“Yes, my options.”

He pushed back his chair and stood up to leave. The faces in the photographs continued to grin at him from over her shoulder.

“We should talk again, Derek. I’m always available should you want to talk. There are more resources available than you’d initially think. Here, why don't I give you this?”

She held out a pamphlet. He made no move to take it from her, and after a few seconds, she set it back down on the desk.

“I think you should reconsider, I really do. There are far better avenues for you out there. For wolves like you.”

“For wolves like me,” he repeated. “Defects, you mean.”

“Well, I myself wouldn’t use that particular word, but yes. That’s what I mean.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and she seemed satisfied that he understood.

“Think about it,” she said. “Something that isn’t too taxing. Something that doesn’t expect a lot.”

“Maybe I should be a school counselor, like you,” he said.

He gave her a smile, then saw himself out.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was waiting for him beside the lockers. School was over and while Derek could hear a few students around the corner, it was just them in the hallway.

Derek felt the familiar red-hot spike of anger that he so often did when he saw Stiles these days. It drove straight through his chest, and his hands itched to pound something into dust. He limped forward, intending to ignore him.

Stiles glanced up from the floor when he heard him approaching. He looked gaunt and tired, like some waif picked off from the streets. Wordlessly, he held out a sheet of paper.

“Our presentation grade. If you’re interested.”

No, he wasn’t interested. Derek gave it cursory glance. They had bombed, to put it simply. It would drag down his grade – the very grade he had been defending not ten minutes ago – but whatever. It didn’t matter.

Stiles’ pink-rimmed eyes flickered over him unhappily. He turned to walk away.

“Why did you ask me to help you during your heat?” Derek said suddenly.

Stiles was startled. “What?”

It was something that had been bothering him, the question churning endlessly around in his head.

“Why did you ask me, out of everyone? Was it because I was easy?”

“Easy? What? What are hell are you talking about?” Stiles seemed genuinely confused and for some reason, it only angered Derek even more. He didn’t know why he was going after this, now of all times, especially when Stiles was clearly in no shape to handle a verbal altercation. He looked like a gust of wind would topple him over. But Derek couldn’t stop. The words pulsed out of him, unstoppable. He needed to know. He needed to know why Stiles would be so cruel to do this to him.

“Was I this… this disabled alpha you could gain an upper hand over? So you could feel better about yourself?”

“Wow, Derek,” Stiles said. He turned away as if he couldn’t be bothered to deal with this.

“Answer me,” Derek said.

“You know what? Fuck you,” Stiles spat out. The word startled Derek despite himself. He’d never been spoken to an omega that way before, not even after his leg had reduced him into a joke.

“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I didn’t ask you because you were easy, are you kidding me? Do you know how scared I was to ask you?” Stiles was shouting by the end of his sentence. He struggled to calm down. “Why can’t you accept that someone would like you just the way you are? I’ve liked you since I was ten or eleven… shit, I can’t even remember anymore. There wasn’t a time when I didn’t like you. And you think, what, because of your leg I’d stop?”

Derek ground his fingers into his palm, turning them into fists. “Why not? Everyone else did.”

“Well, I’m not everyone else," Stiles said. He gestured helplessly. “Yeah, maybe…I wouldn’t ever have had the guts to talk to you if things hadn’t turned out the way they did. I don’t know. You were the king of high school and I was… nonexistent to you. You were dating Kate Argent, and she was… perfect. But believe me, I’ve never once thought ‘yes, I have a chance with him now that nobody wants him anymore.’ You were the only person I’ve ever wanted to be with. I didn’t want it to be anyone else. Just the thought of anyone else touching me was disgusting. That’s why… that’s why I asked.”

Derek kept still, breath caught in his throat, every part of him listening to Stiles’ heartbeat. He wasn’t lying.

“Derek, if no one wants to have anything to do with you anymore, it’s their loss. I still think you're amazing." Stiles let out a watery sigh, his brows knitting together. "So could you please give me a chance? I know we don’t know each other that well, and I can be a nuisance. But we can be good together. I know we can.”

Stiles’ face was earnest and desperate in an attempt to make Derek see.

It was so tempting to say yes. He wanted to. With everything he had, he wanted to. But he couldn’t do it. That one word would be akin to taking a gun and shooting Stiles in the temple. Stiles’ face crumpled when he saw it was no use.

Derek was about to limp away when Stiles spoke.

“You bonded with me,” Stiles said despairingly.

Derek stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”

"You bonded with me."

Derek was sure he was still hearing wrong. There was no way. It just wasn’t possible.

“You. That time. You did. You bonded with me. And I didn’t want to use the bond card because I know I forced you into. Into fucking me. During my heat,” Stiles said. His words came out as if squeezed through a tightened throat. “I know you didn’t want to do it. But it happened. And I’m so sorry about that! I’d take it back, if I could. Not because I regret it being you, but because you hate me right now. You hate my guts and I can’t stand it. And I don’t know what to do!”

Arms wrapped around his waist and a face pressed into his shoulder. Stiles' breath warmed Derek’s neck. He was trembling horribly, his hands bunched in Derek’s shirt.

“I need you, Derek. Please. I’m begging you.”

Derek's mind had gone blank. He couldn't think. It... it just wasn't possible.

He pried the hands off and pushed Stiles away. “I...I don't know what you're talking about," he said hoarsely. "I can’t help you.”

 

* * *

 

Paige found him huddled in her plastic chair out on the deck.

Her wheelchair rolled to a stop beside him. Her sharp eyes peered at him through the dark, glinting yellow and strangely feline under the streetlamp.

“What’s wrong? You have the face of a politician who knocked up a back alley hooker.”

“He says I bonded with him,” Derek whispered. His skin was cold and flecked with goosebumps. He couldn't stop shivering. He couldn't stop seeing Stiles' stunned, hopeless eyes staring at him.

“Who?”

“Stiles.”

Her face remained blank. She had no idea who he was talking about.

“The one who asked me to see him through his heat. Stiles.”

Paige’s brows went up, both in understanding and horror. “You bonded with him and then you just cast him aside? Are you nuts? You can’t do that to an omega. They go insane.”

“I didn’t bond with him.”

“You didn’t bond with him? So he’s lying?”

“No,” he said, struggling to muster the energy to explain properly. His brain was in shambles. “I didn’t do it intentionally. _I didn’t know_.”

He said it almost pleadingly, as if would solve everything. He had never heard of one taking that way. There had to be intent and purpose. Mutual agreement was always preferred, although there were plenty of alphas who didn’t give two figs for that. But there always had to be intent. A strong desire to take the omega for their own.

 _It’s not possible_ , he thought, and realized he had spoken the words out loud.

“Well, apparently it is, if he’s telling the truth.”

It would have explained everything, why Stiles had been weak and droopy and suffering for the past several weeks. Why Stiles was only able to sleep at school. They needed to be close together, at least mentally if not physically. And Derek had shunned him both ways. He was literally the cause of Stiles’ headaches and nosebleeds and every other ailment Stiles was going through.

Paige looked like she didn't understand what the problem was. “Derek, this is a good thing. This is good. You need him in your life.”

Yes, he did. It frightened him how much needed him. Wolves weren’t meant to be alone. The loneliness was unbearable, a razor blade shaving away at his sanity. It was almost laughable how much he needed Stiles. But none of that was important. His loneliness didn’t matter. The crux of the matter was that he wasn’t good enough. Not anymore.

“He deserves better,” he said.

“ _He deserves better_ ,” Paige mimicked. “Fuck. If there’s one thing I hate, its broody little wolf-boys.”

She saw his expression and relented. She rested a hand on his thigh, but this time, it was to comfort, not to seduce.

“Derek. You’re good for him. What do you mean, he deserves better? You’re good enough. I’ve only known you for two months and I know that much. Maybe this Sta… whatever his name is doesn’t need an alpha to take care of him. Maybe all he wants is someone to care about him and treat him right. You know that’s rarely the case.”

“I can’t...” He was thinking of Kate. The things she had said before she left him.

Paige was clearly not the patient type. “Fuck, you're stubborn. Okay, I can tell that my words aren’t sinking in through that thick skull of yours. I’m not your mom and I can’t tell you what to do. But for the record, you’re being stupid, wallowing in your own self-pity and misery. So what if the world tells us we’re not worth it? Tell it to go fuck itself on an umbrella.”

He was too tired to tell the world to go screw itself. That was the point. He was just this damaged, tired alpha who couldn't do anything. 

A hand slapped his shoulder, then began tugging at his arm.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside. Brood inside. You're turning into a piece of frozen cod.”

He obediently got to his feet and shuffled behind her wheelchair like a corpse. Her fingers were still wrapped around his, and she gave them a gentle squeeze.

He collapsed on her couch and she left to go get a pillow. He thought he wouldn’t be able to sleep, that he'd spent the entire night awake with his tormenting thoughts. But perhaps it was denial, or a form of escape. By the time Paige returned with a quilt, his eyes were closed and he was out like a light.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This note probably belongs above the first chapter, but anyway, just felt like adding some thoughts as I wrap it up... I've always been fascinated by the alpha/omega and mates-in-heat tropes (two of my guilty pleasures) and wanted to try my hand at writing one. So I did, and this was the result. I might try again sometime in the future. This turned out to be a bit (far) more... angst-ridden and schmaltzy and over-the-top drama than I wanted, but that seems to be the case with nearly all my writing these days, so I shouldn't be too surprised. I'm not completely satisfied with it, and I'm sure that it's patchy in a few places with the plot, characterization, flow, and all that good stuff (plus, I had to laugh at myself as I wrote this, because it seems as if the entire male population of BH is gay), but I'm kind of done with it and I've decided to release it into the interwebz wild as is. I kindly ask that you not take it too seriously and read it solely for the purpose of entertainment for which it was written.

He began to count down the numbers in his head. Twenty-two more days. Twenty-two more days and he would no longer be stuck in high school. He didn’t know what he would do after that. Maybe he’d leave Beacon Hills. Pack everything he had into the duffel bag he kept tucked away in the closet and leave without telling anyone.

As for Stiles…

He made calls to his lawyer, who sounded flat and unimpressed over the line.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Derek said. She hummed her disapproval. Derek didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to go around in circles. His mind was made up.

“I’m paying you,” Derek reminded her. “You work for me.”

“Hey, if that’s what you want, then that’s what you’ll get. I’ll get the papers ready.”

The bond couldn't be broken, but there were ways around it with pills and injections. They were expensive, but Stiles wouldn't have to worry about that. Derek was only doing what was best for him. Stiles wouldn’t have to suffer. He wouldn’t have to be tied down with…with Derek.

He stared bleakly at the kitchen calendar with the tidy little squares filling up the white sheet like a chessboard. If life was a game of chess, his pieces had been swept off the board, from pawn to queen. He had no fight left in him.

Twenty-two more days.  
Twenty-one.  
Twenty…

He would finish school for his parents’ sake, then he would leave. Vanish without a trace. Like a prisoner in jail with only a handful of days before his release date, all he had to do was keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble until then.

Of course, Derek should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. The universe had long-since turned its back on him.

Since the fire, he had been going to school out of a sense of duty. But these days, that had all changed and the sole reason was to see Stiles, if he were being honest with himself. That, he couldn’t deny, no matter how much he tried to twist the facts around and form it into something else. Knowing that he only had a brief time left had him making all kinds of justifications that it was okay, it was no more foolish than a man stocking food up for an upcoming famine. He wanted to memorize Stiles' scent, his voice, keep it all locked up in his heart like a single photograph kept inside a man's wallet. That much he would allow himself.

So to school he went. He barely paid any attention in class; his head was usually down on the desk and hidden in the crook of his arms, his ears focused only on the beating of the heart several classes away. He would listen to its soft cadence and try to fall asleep to it. 

But there were times when his leg hurt so horribly that he needed to go to the storage room to lie down.

He was passing through the locker room to get there when a wave of nostalgia hit him and he stopped as if a hand was pulling him back. He slowly sank down on the bench and looked around the room. It was the smell that did it for him; the scent of the grass and dirt from the field, the leather from the basketballs inside the lockers, the sweat that lingered in the room. He could remember a time when he had been the king of the field, unstoppable, unbound. He remembered the wind in his hair, the feeling of being _free_. He wanted that back again. He would have given anything to be able to run.  

He didn't know how long he sat there, reminiscing and lost in his sad thoughts, when suddenly, the back door banged open, making him jump. Someone stalked inside, cursing rapidly. The footsteps grew louder, and then Jackson appeared from around the corner. He had most likely been kicked off the field again.

Derek hurriedly stood up from the bench. He tried to move quickly, wanting to leave Jackson’s presence as soon as possible. The other boy had turned into a complete stranger to Derek over the past year and half. True, he had always been full of himself and there had been many a time when he was flat out unpleasant to be around. But now, there was a dark, arrogant attitude about him that went beyond the cockiness of teenage boy who believed himself to be the infallible king of high school. He was almost predatory at times. They never spoke to each other, and when they did, it was always Jackson who made some belittling remark while Derek kept his mouth shut. Derek didn’t have a problem with that. Peace and quiet. Keep his nose clean. It was all he wanted.

Unfortunately, peace and quiet would be the last thing for him today. 

Jackson bared his teeth like a wildcat, brushing off a spray of sweat from his hair. He looked around and his attention fell on Derek.

“What are you looking at, faggot?”

Don’t flatter yourself, Derek thought scornfully. He hadn’t been looking, but he turned away without answering. If it was a fight Jackson wanted, he wasn’t going to get it.

He hastened his steps, knowing that the wisest thing to do would be to silently slink away. He was kicking himself for not heading straight to the storage room.

“Fag,” Jackson spat out.

“Problems with Danny?” Derek said mildly. Jackson needed to keep in mind that once upon a time, they had been good friends. He was privy to a few of Jackson’s deepest, darkest secrets. Namely his unrequited love for his best friend, who went around sleeping with anything on two legs that had a dick and a pretty face, but refused to give Jackson the time of the day.

As expected, Jackson’s cheeks turned an ugly color, mottling red. He swooped over like a yellow-haired raven. “What did you say?”

Derek was already regretting his words. He raised both palms up. “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“You said something. Say it again. I want to hear you say it again.”

“Come on, man. I’m not looking for any trouble. It was a joke.”

“Yeah, I’m not laughing, am I? Say it.”

He tried to pass by, but Jackson shoved him backwards. Derek’s shoulder bumped into the row of metal behind him and he grit his teeth in anger. But he squashed it down and instead lowered his eyes in a sign of surrender, indicating that he was giving up. Before his leg, he would have pounded to dust anyone who dared laid a finger on him in disrespect, but that was then. This was now.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Jackson’s gaze was heavy with scorn and disgust. “Worthless. Ruined a perfectly good omega by sticking your dick into him.”

And something in Derek snapped. It snapped so hard and so fiercely that he could almost hear it in his ears and rattling through his bones. His resolve crumbled.

“It must suck being the only guy Danny refuses to get down on his knees for,” he said.

It was the one thing he knew that could cut Jackson to the core like a double-edged sword. Derek knew it had worked when Jackson went pale, the meaning behind the words sinking deep into his brain.

Silence hung in the air and it was horrible.

The lines of Jackson’s body were rippling with anger and Derek’s vicious satisfaction suddenly turned icy-sour with the realization that he might actually die in this tiny locker room that stank of sweat and dirty teenage boys.

Derek opened his mouth to calm him down, that nothing had happened, but of course it was too late.

Jackson’s eyes flamed red and he leapt towards Derek with a snarl. Derek braced himself for the impact, hands curling into fists.

Things seemed to move in a slow-motion blur. He ducked, then ducked again. He got in a punch, two punches, three, and he had the pleasure of seeing Jackson’s face snapping to the side, a blossom of red appearing on his cheek. He thought he was fast, but he wasn’t fast enough. A fist rammed square into his chest, right under his sternum, and there was the peculiar sensation of being lifted up from the ground before being slammed back down.

The shock of the tile floor burst in his tailbone and pain jolted up through spine. His left elbow crunched against the bench and his breath left him completely. The soles of a sneaker loomed in his view. Derek quickly rolled to the side and covered his head with his arms, and it was the only thing that kept his skull safe from the vicious kick to his head.

Derek gasped as Jackson stomped down his foot on his leg, as hard as he could. He brought it down again and again, and on the third time, Derek heard the crack of bone. The sound was not unlike a large branch splintering in half and the pain was searing, so indescribably horrible that he went light-headed from it. White-hot stars burst through his vision, sparking beneath his eyelids, and he collapsed, disoriented, his brain rattling in his head like a dry walnut. Nausea rolled through his stomach and he was scared he was going to pass out, and even more scared what Jackson might do to him then. He fought the urge to vomit.

On the floor like this, with Jackson towering over him, he felt exposed and vulnerable, a fish filleted open. He might as well have been naked with his belly exposed to the other Were. Jackson merely stood there, his disgust palpable, looking down as if Derek was beneath him – far too beneath him to even touch with his feet – and that somehow made it worse. Derek couldn't stand the look in his eyes.

“You should have died with the rest of your family,” Jackson said. He turned around.

The legs moved in the opposite direction, and the door creaked open and slammed shut. Derek was alone now in the locker room. All he could hear was his wheezy, labored breathing, and a thin-pitched whine in his ears.

Derek struggled to sit up. He pressed his forehead against the cold tiles, trying to gather the strength to not faint. His lungs felt as if he’d taken sips of boiling oil and he had to clamp his mouth shut to keep himself from moaning. His skin was clammy, sweat bubbling up where his forehead met his hairline.

He managed to push himself up into a sitting position and he rested the back of his head against the wall. Having no strength to do anything else, he stared blankly into the distance. His head drooped forward and he closed his eyes.

Thirty minutes later, the janitor discovered him, unconscious, and called for an ambulance.

 

* * *

 

The hospital was white, the sheets were white, the walls were white. His mind was black. He was in one of the foulest moods he had ever been in since he could remember after the fire. He wanted to tell the doctor to fuck off with her accusing questions and condescending little remarks. He wanted to tell her to shove the crutch she brought him up her ass. He glared at the white walls without talking. The humiliation was unbearable.

His leg bone was shattered and wasn’t healing properly, they said, which was only to be expected. He would have to stay until the doctor deemed him fit to leave.

One of nurses told him that a police officer would be coming down from the precinct to get his statement of the attack, but no one ever stopped by. It was just as well. Derek had no intention of saying a word, and even if he spilled the beans, no one was going to go after Jackson, not with his bulldog DA of a father. Jackson was untouchable.

The medication they gave him made him hallucinate. Sometimes he saw his family. His mother and father. Laura and Cora. Even Peter was there, gazing upon him in his sardonic, devil-may-care manner. Derek reached out, trying to touch them, but they were far beyond his reach. They only continued to look at him sadly. Sometimes he thought his sisters or his parents were trying to say something to him, and he peered at their moving mouths, desperate to understand what they were trying to tell him, but their words were also beyond his reach.

He slipped in and out of consciousness, going from nightmare to hospital room to nightmare to the hospital room, until everything was a blur and he couldn’t tell which was which.

The next time he opened his eyes, Kate was sitting at his bedside, and she was smiling at him.

“Hello, Derek,” she said, lips curling like a satisfied cat. He squinted at her through gritty eyes, extremely displeased with his brain at this new conjuration. He knew he was a masochist, but this was too much, even for him.

“You,” Kate declared, rather merrily, “look like shit.”

And that was when he knew she wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

He cleared his throat. “Kate.” He was surprised at how gravelly his voice was, as if his larynx had been ground between a mortar and pestle. Until now, he had either ignored the doctor and nurses, communicating in sullen grunts and dismissive gestures, and this was the first time he could remember talking voluntarily since he’d ended up in the hospital.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said.

It had been almost a year since he’d seen her. She looked the same as she always did, yet different. Better. More polished. More cultured. There had always been an amused beauty to her that made her look both sensual and sly, as if she were considering the best way to cut your jugular. Then again, Derek was biased.

“Your hair,” he rasped out.

She smiled, pleased. She touched the side of her head. “Figures it would be the first thing you notice. Do you like it?”

She had dyed it the color of maize. “Suits you,” he said, his voice sandpaper rough.

“It’s true that blondes have more fun, you know.”

He wouldn’t know. His throat was dry and irritated and he coughed against his shoulder. He started when the cold rim of a cup touched his lips.

“Go on. It’s not poisoned,” Kate said. She was standing up now, and he saw that she was wearing a sheer blouse that he had used to like. She noticed him notice it, and her smile grew wider.

“Go on,” she prodded once more.

He greedily drank the water in little sips until the chalkiness in his throat abated and his thirst was slaked. She took it away and placed the cup back on the counter.

“The nurse brought you some lunch. I had her leave it with me.” She set a tray in front of him. She began to take off the plastic lids, revealing the dishes underneath. Grilled chicken that looked like a desiccated tongue, and a glop of banana pudding dumped in a plastic bowl. Something that smelled like spinach and was green. She pushed the utensils towards him.

“What are you doing here?” he said, in his hoarse voice.

“Looking after you, dummy,” she said, then smiled to show that she was only teasing and didn’t mean it. Her smiles meant nothing to him. He regarded her without expression, and she sighed, her slim, delicate shoulders sagging. Her hand was on his arm again, over his bicep, right where the sleeve of his hospital gown ended. Her nails were trimmed and glossed with manicure. The warmth of her hand carried into his skin.

“Look. Derek,” she said. “I know we parted very badly. I behaved very badly.”

He closed his eyes briefly, all of the words she had hurled at him like knives coming back to him. His leg ached and he discreetly glanced down at himself to make sure he was covered in his blanket. The last thing he wanted was too look like a feeble invalid in front of her.

“I know I did,” she said. “But I was young and very immature. I’d like to put all that behind us.”

He didn’t know what to say. This was unexpected.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” she said.

He shook his head.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that,” she said. She gently rubbed her hand up and down his arm. “I’m really glad.”

She set the tray aside and sat with him for a while. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No,” he said. He pretended to be sleepier than he was.

She plumped his pillow and tugged the blanket up to his chest. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Get some rest, Derek.”

She leaned over and he was surprised when warm lips kissed his cheek. She rubbed at the smudge of lipstick with her thumb.

“I was just teasing, you know that, right? You’re still very handsome.”

She gathered her purse, then gave him one final smile and left. He heard her high heels clicking their way down the hall until it faded.

He wondered if she would be back.

The night stretched on. He was tired, yet couldn’t sleep. The beeping of the monitors and the groans and mutters from the other patients kept him company all throughout the night.

 

* * *

 

She was back, the very next day.

She had washed her hair with the shampoo that smelled of peaches, and he wondered if she had done it for him. Most likely she had. Her hair was sleek and yellow, and he was startled at how good she looked.

She leaned over, brushing her breast against his arm. She fussed over him and tried to feed him breakfast. He refused. He wasn’t so far gone that he needed someone to feed him like a bibbed baby in a highchair.

“You’ve always been so bad at letting people take care of you,” she said with a laugh. “You were always so proud.”

“What do you want, Kate?” he said quietly.

She took her hand away from his. “I came here to make amends. That’s all this is. I wasn’t there for you last time. I want to be here for you now.”

“That’s all it is?”

“And…” she said. She smiled tentatively. “I was hoping that we could be friends again.”

“ _Friends_."

“And maybe more.”

“You want to get back together?” he said.

“I do. I’ve missed you. We were good together, Derek. We were really good.”

He nodded. “And it’s not because your dad’s bankrupt and going to prison for embezzlement?”

The room went static. After a long moment, her lips thinned, her face going hard and brittle.

He returned her smile. “I hear you’re so broke, burglars break into your house and leave money,” he said.

For a second, she looked murderous and he thought she would crack her hand across his cheek. She had done it before. Quite a few times, actually, back when they were dating. “I,” she said, then stopped. He could hear the calculations whirring on in her head.

“If you’re here thinking I’m going be your ticket out of that mess, then think again.”

Without another word, she went over and picked up her purse. Looping the strap over her arm, she turned to him.

“Cripple,” she spat out, and left.

“Bitch,” he said. Immature, but he was sick of taking the high road. It was overrated as hell, in his opinion.

She slammed her way out of the room. Her pointy-little high heels picked up pace and hammered away on the corridor tiles before fading away into echoes and then, there was nothing left to hear.

She still managed to astound him. Had she been lying in wait all this time for an opportunity like this?

He picked at the remote control buttons, but didn’t turn on the TV. He couldn’t stand the smell of disinfectant and ammonia and sickness that permeated every corner of the hospital. He knew it was time to leave, never mind what the doctor had to say.

He slid off from the bed, gritting his teeth in anger when his leg refused to cooperate. It was a struggle to stand upright, and he shuffled around the room in little steps, a hand always held out to grab something in case in fell, until he no longer felt he was in danger of collapsing. He took off the papery hospital gown and changed into his clothes. He left the crutch where it was, set against the wall, and left the room. He stopped at the counter, where a woman told him that the hospital bill would be sent to him within a week. 

On his way out, he paused. He thought he detected a familiar scent, and he stood in the middle of the corridor, his heart aching fiercely. But no, his brain was playing tricks on him and nothing more.

Stiles wasn’t here.

It was too far to walk home, and he waited outside for almost an hour for the cab to arrive. When it finally did arrive, the driver had a bad attitude and the car reeked of weed and old burritos. Derek didn’t care. All he wanted was to go home.

 

* * *

 

He told the cab to stop in front of the complex. He paid the driver and got out. The late afternoon was cold and someone was frying fish for dinner. His leg felt stiffer, as if it had turned into a chunk of wood, and it was difficult to bend at the knee. As he was limping up towards the apartment, he saw that his mail slot stuffed with white envelopes; a collection of three days’ worth of junk mail, and he yanked them out of the tiny box. He went up the staircase, rummaging around his jacket for his keys.

His apartment was chilly. He would never consider this place a home but it was better than the blank walls of the hospital, and he was glad to be back. He took a long shower, washing off the stench of the hospital, then before his hair could dry, he was dead asleep on his futon.

When he woke up, it was night. He had slept for a good four hours. He ate some stale bread, tearing off the corners that were growing mold, then thought to hell with it, and went downstairs to see Paige. The doors to her veranda was open and music drifted out.

“Didn’t know you were in to Mozart,” he said. She turned around, her eyes lighting up, a wide grin in place, and he felt something in his chest clench and tremble. It was a gratifying feeling, to know that there was at least one person in the world who was happy to see him.

“Hello! Welcome back!” Paige exclaimed. She set aside the bottle of beer in her hand and opened her arms towards him. He leaned forward until her arms were clasped around his backside and she was squeezing him so tight that his ribs hurt. He endured it quietly until she released him and gave him a smack on the arm.

“You alright? How are you?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Don’t scare me like that.”

“I’ll try not to,” he said.

They went inside. The apartment was warm and scented with flowers from a candle lit on the table.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she said. "I'm really, really glad."

“So am I.” He never wanted to be inside a hospital again.

“I heard about it on the news,” she told him. “That’s how I found out. There was a picture and everything.”

He rubbed the side of his face, embarrassed. He wished she hadn’t mentioned it; it brought back unpleasant memories of when the fire had been plastered over the news channels for weeks.

She looked him up and down, examining his haggard face. “You've lost weight. You hungry? I can cook something up in no time.”

“No thanks.”

“Who was the chick?”

"What chick?" he said.

“I went to see you at the hospital, but some blonde hussy caught me in the hallway right outside your room and told me to go away. Said she was your fiancée.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“She’s not my fiancée," he said.

“Who is she, then? Didn’t sound like she was lying.”

Yeah, sociopaths always believed their own lies. He shook his head, _pissed_ at Kate's audacity. “Nobody. She’s nobody.”

They chatted a while, until he grew tired and wanted to be alone. Paige graciously let him go, telling him to get some rest, that they'd talk more later - clearly wanting to know more about Kate - and he went back upstairs to his apartment.

It was only hours later that his attention fell on the bundle of mail he had set on the counter. He thought of tossing them into the bin, but then his eyes caught the address from which the letter at the top of the pile had been sent. He opened the envelope and slipped out the letter. He read it, then read it again.

_I am pleased to inform you that you have been admitted…_

His first acceptance letter to college.

He set it to the side. For all her lack of tact, he knew the counselor was right in her assessment should he decide to attend university. He could be the best, excel at everything there was to excel at, but no one would take him seriously. His professors would be a more scholarly, more degree-laden version of his high school teachers, eyes gliding over him as if he didn’t exist, like water over oil, as if anything that came out of his mouth was of little importance. He would spend money and time and his remaining strength, and the end result would be a sheet of paper that got him nowhere. Sure, it wasn’t impossible, but it would be an uphill battle, without a doubt. He no longer had the motivation to fight that battle.

 

He dropped out of school that very week. The entire ordeal was done with two short phone calls to the office. No muss, no fuss. The principal sounded almost relieved. Perhaps it was the cowardly way out, perhaps it would have broken his parents’ heart if they knew it had come to this. He didn’t care anymore, didn’t care that the others would think he was running away. The thought of sitting for hours with people who would happily see him dead no longer appealed to him.

The rest of his life stretched endlessly like an empty desert, with no relief in sight. Before the fire, he had made plans for his future. Stay the star of the lacrosse team, keep getting good grades. Prom – and it was incredible, that there had been a time when he’d dared hoped to be prom king. Then came college, probably with a scholarship. A well-paying job. Once he was settled somewhat, find his mate. Marriage. Kids and a family. A life so far incongruous to the one he was headed towards now. He wouldn’t be crossing them off his list any time soon.

Well, no. He’d done one thing, he supposed. He had found his mate.

  

* * *

 

He received his high school diploma in the mail. His name was printed in black ink in pretty cursive against a creamy white sheet, announcing that he had graduated from Beacon Hills High School. He didn’t know how to feel about it; it felt, if he were being honest with himself, like a big middle finger. A big fuck you. Either way, it didn't matter anymore. He tossed it into the trash without a second glance. 

He started getting things in order. He had a junker tow away his decrepit car for a small fee. He gave his landlord his one month's notice. He called his lawyer to confirm things. 

"It's done," she told him. "Just the way you wanted, against my advice. It's all done. Against my advice."

"I got it. Drop it. I'm well aware you think I'm a dumbass."

"Dumbass is an understatement," she said, still in that disapproving voice of hers. "So you're leaving? That's next on your list of really smart things to do?"

"It is."

"Where do you plan to go? You have a place in mind?"

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck."

They hung up. He didn't need luck, he needed people to stop telling him he was being stupid and to leave him alone. 

The place in mind was a little cabin out in the middle of nowhere, a few hours drive away. It belonged to his parents and was on private property. No one would bother him there. He planned to spend the rest of his remaining life as a mountain man. It seemed like a good, solid, faultless plan. 

He hadn’t yet told Paige, and dreaded doing so. He could imagine the never-ending berating she would give him. It was very tempting to just leave in the middle of the night, but it didn’t feel right. He couldn’t do that, not to her. He would miss her; it surprised him to realize just how much. But he needed to get away from it all. 

 

Then there were times when life sometimes gave him pleasant little surprises. 

He was making his way down the street when an unfamiliar voice called his name.

“Hale! Hey, Hale!”

He turned around to find one of his classmates from school jogging his way. Vernon Boyd, he realized.

“How you doing, man?” Boyd asked, puffing as he reached Derek.

Derek twitched a shrug in answer.

“Good,” Boyd said.

They quietly regarded each other for a few seconds. Derek felt the dark eyes examining him and reminded himself that the man meant no harm. They had been on fairly good terms before his leg and if they weren’t as friendly now, that was Derek’s fault. Boyd had never shown him any ill-will.

“I’m off to New York in a few days. Headed out there with Erica. You know Erica,” Boyd said.

Yes, he did know Erica. The two had been dating for some time, if he remembered correctly.

“Good luck out there,” Derek said, not knowing what else was appropriate to say. New York. He’d planned a road trip down there after graduating, see Times Square and meet up with his sister. Laura had been the more excited one, telling him about all the amazing restaurants and places she would take him. Stiles would have liked it there. Derek shook his head. No thinking about Stiles, he had promised himself. It was time for him to wean himself off from that addiction.

Boyd nodded his thanks. Derek thought the conversation was over, and was about to walk away, when Boyd spoke up.

“You hear about Jackson?”

The name sent a spasm of anger through his temple. What had he done now? Crashed his Porsche and bought a new one? Bought a small island? Beat someone else to a pulp and walked away scott-free? Derek had received his hospital bill, just as the lady at the counter had promised, and the number of zeroes at the end had been enough to send him into an apoplectic fit. He didn’t particularly want to know what the little princeling had done.

“What about him?”

“Someone stabbed his hand with a pen.”

Derek paused, perking up a bit. “What? Who?”

Boyd shrugged. “Jackson isn’t saying. Which isn’t like the dude. His attacker must have some dirt on him to keep him quiet. Or something. I don’t know.”

Derek didn't know what to say. This was certainly news to him.

“Went straight through and came clean out the other side. He had to have minor surgery on it.”

Why? He should have been more than capable of healing himself.

Boyd seemed to know what he was thinking. “Thing was infused with wolfsbane,” he said. “Gnarly, huh? Dude couldn't use it for weeks and had to miss the final game and all that. Whoever did it was really out to get him.”

“Oh.” Derek was astonished. Huh. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Not a problem. Take care, man.”

After a second, Derek nodded. “You too. Have… have a great time in New York.”

“I will.”

“Tell…” It was hard getting the words out. He tried again. “Tell Erica I said hi.”

Boyd flashed a row of tidy, white teeth. “I will.”

They parted ways.

Derek tried to think of who might have done it. Jackson had enemies by the handful. He imagined Jackson awaiting surgery in the hospital, probably grinding his teeth in anger, a hole in the middle of his hand you could see through like a peephole, and he couldn’t help but smile. It couldn’t have happened to a better, more deserving guy.

He was strangely grateful Boyd had stopped and taken the time to talk to him. Not just to tell him about Jackson, but to say hello and to tell him about his trip. It was bittersweet to think of people he had known drifting away to live their lives after high school. He shook his head again. He couldn’t afford to get sentimental. Either way, it was a chapter in his life put to rest. There was no looking back.

  

* * *

  

He had been out for a few hours, getting a few final things in order. The day was cold and he was wearing his ratty fleece jacket. He didn’t need it, not necessarily, but it had belonged to his dad and it was more out of comfort than anything. He did shiver, though, when the air suddenly gusted against him, nippy and sharp. A plastic shopping bag floated by, dragged along the asphalt by a flurry of wind. He was tired, but satisfied, and he looked forward to going home and sitting down and taking a rest. He labored up the staircase, clumping his leg beside him.

When he reached his apartment, he turned the knob and frowned. The door was unlocked, when he distinctly remembered locking it. Old habits and all... His heart started to thump as he slowly pushed his way in.

Someone was sitting at the table. He had thought it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but Stiles continued to sit there, a hazy shape in the blue-gray darkness.

He had a pair of scissors in one hand.

“How did you get in here?” Derek asked. As if that was the important thing.

Stiles didn’t look at him. “Your friend,” he said quietly. “She got someone from upstairs to open the door.”

Paige. Fucking meddler.

Derek took a step inside. “What are you doing with that?” he said, uneasy at the way Stiles had his fingers stuck between the blades of the scissors. They weren’t the kind you gave to little kids to cut paper; they could do serious damage if Stiles was determined enough. “Put that down.”

Stiles sat there motionless, his eyes vacant. “Will you let me stay with you if I cut my fingers off?”

“What?” Derek felt a chill run down his spine. He took a step forward. “Stiles. Put it down.”

“If you’re rejecting me, because of your leg.”

“Stiles - ”

“If they’re gone, will you let me stay then?”

He moved slowly as if approaching a jittery animal, fearful that the blades would move and Stiles’ fingers would tumble to the floor like cut sausages. He imagined the crunch of bone, the gush of blood, the severed arteries and veins that could never be reattached.

“Give it to me.”

He caught the thin wrist, wrapping his hand around it. Gently and carefully as he could, he pried the scissors away. Stiles held on briefly, but Derek managed to unfurl the fingers and pull them from him. Derek quickly set the scissors aside, far from Stiles’ reach as the boy sagged in his arms. Stiles burrowed against his chest, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt. He was trembling badly.

“Please let me stay with you,” Stiles pleaded.

Derek opened his mouth, trying to put some distance between them so he could look at Stiles’ face, so he could get his brain to work again, but Stiles clung to him.

“Derek. Please. The heats are bad enough, but it’s like I’ve been shot in the heart and I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. Don’t kick me out. Let me stay with you. Please. I can’t - ”

Derek drew away, and Stiles reached out blindly, desperate to keep him close.

“Please. Alpha. I’ll do anything you want. I swear I will.”

The words made Derek sick to his stomach.

“Alpha - ”

“Stop calling me that!” Derek said, and the thick anger in his voice made Stiles flinch. He hung his head, defeated.

He was in bad shape. He was in very bad shape. Derek knew he was minutes away from passing out from the agony of the heat, and it was a wonder he was still on his feet.

“Come here,” Derek said.

He led Stiles over to the bed. Derek didn’t like the way Stiles took his steps forward, his eyes unfocused as a doll’s, as if there were nothing remaining inside the shell of his body. Heat pains were brutal, torturous, and if he didn’t even have the energy remaining to react to them…

Derek sat down on the edge of the futon, the lumpy mattress whining beneath him, the springs creaking. Stiles went still as Derek began to undress him, breath hitching in a mix of hope and despair. Derek unhooked the button of Stiles’ jeans, then slid them down along with the boxers.

He took off his own pants, just around to his knees, and pulled Stiles closer, shifting so that the pale legs were on either side of his thighs. Stiles sank himself down onto Derek’s lap, lips parting slightly. But once he was fully seated, he lacked the strength to do anything and he simply sat there, hands resting on each side of Derek’s shoulder for support. His skin was hot to the touch, blazing like a furnace.

Derek angled his leg up a fraction, so that Stiles would slide down and seat himself deeper, reach relief quicker without having to move as much, but Stiles only let out a dull, feverish moan, eyes fluttering shut.

“I love you, Derek.”

Derek felt his heart curdle. “Stiles…”

Stiles’ next words were so unintelligible through his tears that Derek could hardly understand what he was saying. “…I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry that I can’t be who you want me to me, and I know I could never replace her, but please let me stay with you.”

Derek drew back slightly and stared at him, wondering if he was delirious. If the heat had addled his brain. “Who are you talking about?”

Two fat tears fell and splattered on Derek's shirt. “Kate.”

Derek would have laughed at that, if this entire thing wasn’t so tragic. What had that bitch told Stiles? “I’m not in love with Kate.”

If he thought that would put Stiles at ease, he was mistaken.

“Then it’s me. You just don’t want me.”

That wasn’t true.

“I didn’t sleep with anyone else,” Stiles said, and the hopelessness in his eyes was gutting. “For my second time. I didn’t. If that helps.”

Derek cupped his hands on Stiles’ nubby hipbones, gently guiding them, and it was only then that Stiles’ started to move his hips in tired little circles. He hissed in pain when the tip of his cock brushed against Derek's stomach. It seemed to take forever, and Derek continued to encourage him, guiding his movements, trying to grind up into him as much as his leg would allow, distressed by the sobbing little gasps Stiles made, until Stiles finally went stiff, a little tremor running through his thighs, and released a few hot drops. 

Stiles instantly curled into Derek like a young child. The heat had receded just enough to calm the fever down to a point where Stiles was no longer in substantial pain and he could have a few hours of respite. But Stiles continued to cling to Derek, frightened that Derek would make him leave. Derek gently drew circles on the cooling skin, soothing him. Stiles' head began to droop and Derek held him against his chest, feeling the warm breath against his neck grow heavy and slow. 

After a while, he realized Stiles had fallen asleep. Mercifully, he had fallen asleep. Derek carefully maneuvered both their bodies so that they were lying lengthwise on the bed and set Stiles’ head on his pillow. His hair had grown longer during the past two months and he stroked Stiles’ damp hair off his forehead. His lips were chapped and his cheeks tacky with dried tears, a few drops still clinging to his lashes. There was an unhealthy pallor to Stiles’ skin that was upsetting. He’d lost so much weight and Derek hated himself for having done this to him.

Bracing his arms on either side of the slender body, he slowly pulled out, careful not to wake the boy under him. Stiles whimpered in his sleep, and Derek patted him until he calmed down.

The moonlight seeped in through the window, pooling over their bodies. Derek pulled the blanket over Stiles’ shoulders, covering him so that he wouldn’t get cold. Flimsy as it was, it would do for now.

He didn’t want to leave the warmth of the bed or the comfort of Stiles' body, but his leg was killing him. He lifted himself off the mattress, hitching his sweatpants back up to his hips. He slowly sat on the hard floor, stretching his legs out, and leaned back. He stared at the patterns made against the wall and wondered what he was going to do. 

He fell asleep sometime during the night.

He woke up to the sound of Stiles stirring in bed. Derek lifted his head from the side, neck stiff and twinging. Stiles was sitting up.

Stiles’ gaze went to the floor, realizing that it was where Derek had chosen to spend the night. He seemed to grow smaller, his face more miserable. He pulled the blanket over his bare legs, covering his nakedness from Derek. He didn’t say anything.

He was waiting for Derek to tell him to leave, Derek realized.

“I can’t do anything for you,” Derek said. Stiles looked up, startled.

“I’m damaged. I can’t protect you. I can’t provide for you. I don’t have a pack. Do you understand?”

Stiles stood up, the blanket pooling on the floor. He came over and carefully pulled himself onto Derek’s lap.

“Derek. You don’t have to do any of those things," Stiles said. "I feel so lucky, having you as my mate. I don’t want your money. I don’t want you to do anything for me. I want to be with you. I want you to let me in. That’s all I need. Do you understand?”

Derek closed his eyes as lips brushed against his cheek. The moment the lips broke away, he sighed.

“You can stay,” he said.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the very, very late epilogue that I promised months ago. It's so late that I'm not sure whether there's any point to it anymore, but either way, here it is. This is a short little thing I wrote to show that the two do not have as dreary and dismal a future as my ending made it out to be, because I certainly wrote it intending it to be happy. It’s set many months after the third chapter, and more intimate and towards the sappier side (for me, I suppose).
> 
> I started writing something ‘in-between’, where it shows them struggling to get to know each other better and going through a much needed phase of healing both individually and together as a couple, and all the hard work they put in. However, I then decided to just jump to a part in their lives when they’re more well-adjusted and happy, since it was turning into another drama/angst fest and even I can only take so much of these two moping around and being all emo.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

It was almost four in the afternoon and time for Stiles to be home from school.

Derek heard a car pulling into the parking lot and rumble to a stop. He had a hard time telling apart cars; an engine was an engine, unless it was some fancy vehicle, and there weren’t too many of those zipping around this part of town. He thought it might be the jeep, but he couldn’t tell for sure. But then the driver stepped out, the door slamming shut and the scent of his boy filled his lungs. There was the tread of feet coming up the stairs and walking along the open hall, soft but quick; Stiles was in a hurry to get to him. A jingle of keys and the front door creaked open and shut.

Stiles lowered his bag off his shoulders and quietly approached the bed. Derek kept his eyes closed.

“Derek?” Stiles said in a whisper. “Are you sleeping?”

He didn’t answer, keeping his breathing heavy and even, face half-hidden against the pillow. There was the quiet drop of sneakers, first one, then the other, and then the sound of jeans riding down skin before draping along the floor. The corner of the blanket lifted and chilly air brushed over Derek’s chest. Just as Stiles was leaning forward, one leg sliding onto the mattress, Derek snatched out with his arms and Stiles yelped as he was flipped over on his back.

“I knew you weren’t sleeping,” Stiles said, smacking Derek with a fist. He was grinning hard, his cheeks red with delight and the nippy fall weather. “Jerk.”

“You’re really not as quiet as you think you are.”

“What are you talking about? I’m the master of stealth.”

Derek cradled him close. Stiles was still in a playful mood and he pressed his fingers against Derek’s neck.

“Shiiit,” Derek hissed. He gathered Stiles’ freezing hands and clamped them in his armpit. Stiles wriggled his fingers, digging them into his side and making him squirm. He clamped his arm tighter and Stiles finally subsided. They blinked sleepily at each other.

“How’s your leg?” Stiles asked, peeking under the blanket to check if Derek had it propped on a rolled-up towel. He had.

Derek hummed, considering. He was comfortable enough with Stiles that he no longer felt the need to give a generic answer. Besides, Stiles always seemed to know when he was lying. “It’s not that bad.”

Not that bad, but not good. They both knew he wouldn’t have been in bed at this hour if it wasn’t so.

Stiles ran the side of his foot along Derek’s calf. “You want a massage?”

“Maybe later,” he said. He wanted Stiles to stay beside him. “How was school?”

“The same,” Stiles said. He burrowed against Derek’s chest, and Derek gathered him in his arms. “History was fun. We learned about ancient cultures and it was pretty cool. But, ugh. Chemistry can straight up suck it.”

Derek smiled against his forehead. Stiles tilted his chin up and began to move his lips back and forth against Derek’s stubble. His breath warmed Derek skin.

Derek had known he missed physical contact, the touch of another person against his own skin, the weight of another against his body, but he had no idea how much until Stiles came along. Fortunately for him, Stiles was tactile. His hands were everywhere at any given time, groping, squeezing, fondling. Derek couldn’t bring himself to mind.

“Will you still love me even if I get an F in chemistry?” Stiles said.

“I will.”

As far as Derek was concerned, people who were good at chemistry were not normal. He’d come precariously close to failing the subject himself when he was in high school.

“Actually, I’m going to do whatever it takes to pass, because there’s no way I want to deal with Harris for another year. He thinks I’m annoying.”

“Then he and I have something in common,” Derek said, and received a little pinch to his nipple.

“Haha. Funny,” Stiles said.

Derek took Stiles’ hand before he could pinch again and linked their fingers. Their rings clinked together.

The apartment had grown more cluttered, more full, over the past few months. Stiles had decorated it to the best of his ability, and the effect was rather nice. They had a bed now, with new pillows and blanket, and a desk in the corner for Stiles to study and do his homework. They had bought another chair so two people could eat at the island counter instead of one. They even had a waffle maker, which was, as far as Derek was concerned, the epitome of luxury living. A few of Paige’s succulents lined the window.

The mountain cabin was on the back burner for now. Stiles had easily told him that he didn’t care where Derek went, he would follow Derek anywhere, his home was with Derek now. But they would be so isolated out in woods. Stiles had friends here, maybe only one or two, but that was one or two more than he would have out in the middle of nowhere. Derek didn’t want to deprive Stiles of anything. He wanted Stiles to finish school, take classes at college, at the very least, and have a proper education.

Deep down, he knew Stiles would never leave him, would stay with him until the very bitter end no matter what, and that gave him comfort. But he wanted to feel as if he were giving Stiles a choice – leaving the door of the bird cage open, so to speak – to have him know that he wasn’t trapped and bound by Derek, to Derek, and that gave him comfort as well.

“Derek?” Stiles said.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“I really liked what you did to me yesterday. Can you do it to me again tonight?”

“I can.”

He felt a frisson of excitement and arousal from Stiles as he snuggled closer.

“We’re having dinner with Paige. She wants us downstairs by six-thirty,” Stiles said.

He nodded sleepily. He hadn’t forgotten.

“She invited Yolanda, too, this time.”

Derek made a face, the corners of his eyes crinkling in displeasure.

“What? What is it?”

“She won’t stop calling me ‘septic tank.’”

Stiles started giggling against his chest, making both of them shake.

“Don’t laugh, it’s all your fault,” Derek grumbled.

Then they were quiet for awhile, both of them lost in thought. It was Derek who broke the silence.

“Do you want a dog?”

“A dog?” Stiles said.

“A puppy, I guess.”

“You want a puppy? Why?"

“I don't know. Just... an idea I had."

"I can be your puppy. I can lick you and bite you,” Stiles said. Derek made a face and tried to pull away as Stiles did just that, nipping at his chin, his cheek, the tip of his nose. “I can even pee on you, if that’s what you want.”

Derek burst into laughter, and had to hold Stiles down against the mattress.

“Do you really want one?” Stiles asked, when they had both calmed down. The insecurity and anxiety that hadn't been there for a long time flickered in his eyes. "Are you... bored?"

"No. I... " He sighed. "I was wondering if you were. If you were lonely.”

Stiles' expression went soft, understanding what was going on inside Derek's head. “I’m not lonely. I have you.”

Derek was quiet for a few seconds.

“Derek, I have you,” Stiles repeated. His foot nudged at Derek's leg. "I don't need anything or anyone else." He pressed his hand against Derek's cheek, and the look in his eyes was the same as when he had made the declaration one year ago.  _I want to be with you. That’s all I need._   The words were no less sincere this time around, no less of a balm for Derek's mending heart.

Derek smiled. “You’re right. You do.”

He kissed Stiles gently but thoroughly, with all the gratitude he was feeling, until Stiles was flushed red all over.

Stiles broke apart and pulled away. "Okay, okay. Get some sleep. Cause you are not getting any sleep tonight. I'll wake you up when it's time to go downstairs."

Derek snorted and settled his head back on his pillow.

"Seriously, I mean it. We're doing it all night long."

"Whatever you want," Derek murmured. He tucked Stiles against him once more and pressed his mouth against his forehead. He could see the moon looking into the window, a half-circle of icy white. Warm and happy, he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep.


End file.
